Le Diable
by curlycue2102
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, Watson, and Clara are back in the third installment of the series. Holmes/OC, Watson/Holmes bromance all the way.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: HELLO, EVERYONE! It has been ages since I have posted on this site, the reason being my immense amount of work in college. However, since I am now on break, I would like to continue my literary endeavors. I just recently watched the new Sherlock Holmes movie, and, as I had anticipated, I absolutely loved it. For those of you reading my other story, fret not, I shall continue it. But I just HAVE to write another Sherlock Holmes. I haven't touched this subject for over a year, but hopefully it doesn't show. I hope you all enjoy this, and, if you have no idea who Clara is, I suggest you first read my other two stories, "Jack of Knives, Queen of Poison," and "Hearts, Hope, and Diamonds." These stories aren't exactly up to par because I wrote them some number of years ago, but they still provide the necessary background for this particular piece.** **Anyway, enough of my rambling; I hope you all enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

Domesticity was, as far as Sherlock Holmes' seasoned genius could conclude, one of the greatest abominations projected upon "today's" modern society; tedium, monotony, and routine were all amongst the most heinous fates that could befall a man.

However, this was an opinion – much like the many of his others – that the vast majority of people failed to share. Even those closest to him could not comprehend his utter hatred for nearly every sort of conformity. True enough, he was a misanthrope – that much was obvious. But his disdain for common etiquette far surpassed a mere annoyance with the hoity-toity frivolities of his class (and those above him, though he refused to recognize their legitimacy) and the _illogical_ obsession with raising one's civil status. He disapproved of the very core of human reasoning.

This was not to say, of course, that Mr. Holmes was particularly avant-garde or liberal in his beliefs. As far as he was concerned, social stratification was entirely necessary. _Not_ all men were created equal (_he_ was living proof of that, thank-you-kindly), and therefore it didn't make sense for them to be treated as such. What especially irked him, though, was the fact that such bumbling idiots – oftentimes his _employers_ (however, _he _was his only true employer, as he incessantly found himself reminding people) – comprised the upper echelon of British culture. Their heads were so far up their own _derrieres_ that they failed to see that he was not helping them, he was merely using their issues to keep himself entertained.

But this was a tangential argument. What was really bothering him was not so lofty and philosophical in nature. His current dilemma stemmed from the fact that Clara was asking him to fetch the groceries from the market.

Married life was not for the faint of heart. There were very few things that could rattle the iron trap that was Holmes' composure. Nothing frightened him, and nothing surprised him. His resolve was absolute: once he set his mind to something, it was a sure bet ("take note of the gambling allusion, my dear Watson") that he would stick with it.

But _Marriage_, that sacred institution legitimized by a man wearing a ridiculously large hat marked with a cross, was proving to be more difficult than he had anticipated.

He'd foreseen problems, yes – Holmes was many things, but he was certainly not naïve. However, he had expected that his… _affection _(the word 'love' was far too foreign to grace his lips) for his _dear and beloved_ wife would allow him to overcome such hardships.

But Clara, oh Clarissa Barker _Holmes_… She'd never been an easy woman to suffer. But he cared for her and she was one of the few people who'd ever weaseled their way into his miniscule (almost nonexistent, if you asked his closest comrade) circle of trust. He respected her, despite the fact that she was not his intellectual equal (so few were, it was hard to be _too_ choosy…). In fact, he did indeed love her – as a husband should love a wife, at that. Although, he had to admit, there were a few times when his fondness for her became a tad too akin to a scientist's love for his experiments. But that was to be expected, he supposed.

He liked to push her to her wit's end, see how far he could stretch her temper before she snapped. He'd found that her tolerance for such things depended entirely on the topic at hand. For example, a short quip regarding her intelligence earned him an equally sharp response, but in good humor. A jab at his decision to marry her, however… Well, let us just say that he'd found soon enough that it's best not to tread into such territory.

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><p><strong>Chapter I<strong>

"_Darling_," he drawled facetiously from behind the closed door of his study, "I've already told you that I am in no mental state to be leaving the house right now. I'm on the brink of a – " _Clang_ – "momentous" – _Pop _– "innovation" – _Bzzup_ – "that will revolutionize" – _Bang._

"Save it," she interrupted testily, lifting a dainty hand to massage the narrow bridge of her nose, "I don't want to know. I'll just have Wiggins do it, I suppose."

"Wiggins! How do you know about the – "

"Baker Street Irregulars? Really, Holmes, do you take me for a fool? You and I both know that you shouldn't be left unattended with guests by the door… Especially after the Langdon incident…"

"He insulted my practice!"

"He asked you to help him find his Springer Spaniel, Holmes…"

"Precisely!"

Clara rolled her eyes in a distinctly un-ladylike fashion. "Be that as it may," she insisted, "you didn't need to say what you did."

"I was merely making an observation," he hissed manically, his head popping out abruptly from behind the door. His unruly brown mane was in complete disarray, as had become customary, and he had smudges of what appeared to be soot on his forehead and cheekbones. "It's not _my _fault that people can't see what is right in front of them. If anything, I was doing him a service." "Plus," he added as an afterthought, "I thought I'd thrown you off with the five-minute-long conversation about hydrangeas."

"You would know better than anyone how far my patience can extend," she retorted, suggestively quirking an eyebrow.

He let out a short bark of a laugh and pointed some sort of bronze beam at her. "No need to get your feathers in a ruffle, my dear," he chided before quickly disappearing back into his study.

"Sherlock, you're incorrigible," she muttered under her breath.

"Thank you, Mrs. Holmes!" he called exuberantly. It seemed the vast majority of their conversations were to take place through his study door, at least for the time being…

"What's all the commotion about?" Mrs. Hudson called from the bottom of the stairs.

"Nothing, Auntie, don't worry," Clara responded calmly.

"You two really must get your own home. This is no place for a married couple to be living!" she nagged for what seemed like the millionth time.

"Hogwash!" came Holmes' muffled voice. "This is as good a place as any! And my practice has already been established here! It would confuse my customers if I were to move… And then we would have to rename the Baker Street Irregulars… The proposition is simply out of the question."

"But there's no room to raise a family!" Mrs. Hudson insisted vehemently.

"A family!" Holmes scoffed viciously. "There will be no such thing."

Clara looked at her aunt sadly. It was true, this was a conversation they had had many a time. Holmes was beyond adamant on the issue – he was _not_ having children.

"It is a couple's duty – "

"Please, Auntie, there's no reasoning with him on this matter. Just let it be."

"Plus," came Watson's voice as he exited his room, "there are more than enough Holmeses in this world, as far as I'm concerned."

Clara smirked at him and didn't betray her true feelings on the matter. In reality, she desperately wanted children. When she'd first married Holmes, she had thought that she would be content to simply live with him as a couple and the proposition of a family was out of the question. But she had been wrong; the longer they were together, the more she yearned for a son or daughter to raise. She was getting older, and the opportunity to start a family was becoming less and less attainable. Clara honestly did not understand her husband's aversion to the prospect. He talked about children with such distaste, but she saw how he interacted with Wiggins and the other members of the Irregulars. He was no Watson, but he was still fairly competent in dealing with the boys.

That said, however, accidents _did_ happen. Though, somehow, they hadn't had any accidents just yet, or even any scares. Holmes must have been doing something without her knowledge, because it didn't make sense for things to be progressing the way they were otherwise.

"You look a bit morose," Watson commented.

"I'm fine," Clara replied quickly.

"You're not – "

"No, don't be absurd. We both know he'd make a horrible father."

"Not quite so horrible as one might think…" he tried.

"No, I'm quite sure that he would be."

"This issue is something of a hot subject on his end too, then?"

"You might say so."

"Well, that's unfortunate. How else are you going to pass on that massive intellect of yours, Holmesie? The world would be at a loss without presence of your genius." Watson called, rapping on the door.

"I assure you, Watson, that there have to be better ways to pass on genes – ways that don't involve diapers and spit-up. I'm sure technology will soon advance in such a way that I do not have to reduce myself to such things. Plus, there's always Mycroft..."

"Do you reckon Mycroft will be settling down anytime soon, old boy?" Watson baited.

"That's beside the point!"

"Touchy subject," Watson whispered conspiratorially to Clara.

The madman emerged again from his self-imposed incarceration. "It is only a touchy subject because everyone sees it fit to _make _it a touchy subject," he said hurriedly. "And quite frankly," he continued, "I don't understand why it is the concern of anyone aside from myself and my _wife_. So I would be much obliged if everyone else would kindly heed my will and just _stay out of it._" And then the door was shut once again.

"It's best not to bring it up," Clara then solemnly explained to Watson.

"A bit late for that," he noted, on his way out the door.

"Perhaps. But John, where are you going?"

"_Why_?" he asked suspiciously. Clara smiled to herself, well aware of the fact that Holmes' presence had apparently rubbed off on her – now even dear Watson suspected that she had ulterior motives.

"I was just going to send for one of the boys to go fetch the groceries, but if you're headed out…"

"Alright, I'll do it."

"Splendid!" she said, handing him a slip of paper.

Watson glanced at it. "Is there any particular reason why you need 'seven heads of cabbage'?"

"Oh, Sherlock must have added that."

"I don't want to know," he mumbled, echoing Clara's earlier sentiments. "Do you have any idea what he's doing in there?"

"Not a clue."

"Wonderful. Well, let's just hope he doesn't light dynamite in the laundry chute again…"

"It wasn't dynamite, it was a very specific assortment of chemicals, and I needed a controlled environment!" Holmes yelled from upstairs.

"How can he even hear us?" Watson asked himself.

"Don't dwell on it," Clara dismissed, patting his shoulder affectionately. "Off you go," she said, placing his bowler hat atop his head and ushering him out the front door.

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><p>Three knocks, varying in severity but equally spread apart in timing… Clara was at the door.<p>

"What do you want now, _darling_?" he drawled.

"I have your cabbages," she said, un-amused.

"You may bring them inside."

She turned the doorknob slowly, mildly afraid of what she might find.

When she entered the room, the air was hazy with some sort of smoke or dust or combination of the two (yes, surely it was – Holmes was at his pipe even more than usual, it seemed). Her blue-green eyes darted around quickly, trying to figure out what he'd been working on so meticulously for such an extended period of time. The curtain that had once-upon-a-time divided his workplace from Watson's was drawn, indicating that he was absorbed in something that he didn't want her to see.

Holmes himself, on the other hand, was at his table, fiddling away with some sort of metallic contraption.

"What is it you have there?" she asked.

"Something that will surely change the way man communicates forever," he said, teeth clenched around the stem of his pipe. He didn't even bother to glance up at her.

"What do you need the cabbages for?"

"That's another matter entirely. I wrote that down days ago…"

"I only started this list yesterday…"

"No matter. The thought has passed. It will have to be resumed another time. Right now, _this_ demands my full attention."

"What _is_ it?" she asked, now sufficiently curious. She took a step forward in an attempt to get a better look at what he was doing. In front of him was some sort of rectangular metallic box with a long bronze antenna-like structure attached to the top. There appeared to be some sort of hinge on the front of it, and Holmes was using a toolkit to position some copper wires inside.

"I like to call it a bilateral radio," he said finally, shutting the small metal door with a flourish. There was a small dial on the front. "Let's try it out, shall we?" "Here," he instructed, shoving it into her grasp. He then opened his desk drawer and procured a more or less identical version of the same object. "I was inspired," he continued, "by the work of someone who has recently made himself of great interest."

"By whom?"

"That matters not. Now, go downstairs and stand outside the neighbor's front door."

"Why the neighbor's?"

"Because the ventilation in this building is such that I can hear everywhere else. Now go!" She couldn't help but suspect that he'd _made_ the ventilation as such…

Clara did as she was told, undeniably curious. All of a sudden, she saw the window to Holmes' room fly open.

"Now," he yelled from the upper floor of their Baker Street residence, "Turn the dial to the right!" He then disappeared from view.

With an exasperated sigh, she did as instructed. There was an annoying buzzing noise, but all of a sudden she could hear Holmes' voice as if he were standing right beside her.

"Hello? Can you hear me?"

"Sherlock?" she gasped, nearly dropping the machine in shock.

"Yes! Clara, I can hear you. Oh, perfect, perfect. Wonderful. Alright, you may come back inside."

Then, all the noise ceased.

Once she was back in his study, she couldn't help but gawk.

"Close your mouth, dear, you wouldn't want to collect flies," he said nonchalantly.

"How – what?"

"Yes, it's a two-way communicator. I can see you didn't fully grasp the meaning of a bilateral radio…"

"It's incredible!"

"Yes, well, I can't take all the credit. I myself was never much of a mechanical engineer… Always preferred chemistry. Much of the basic concept was taken from an entirely different contraption that I came across. In any case, I'm glad to see that it's effective…"

"You weren't joking when you said it was something revolutionary…"

"No, unfortunately not. It's a new age."

"What are you going to do with it?"

He shrugged and took a long drag from his pipe. "Keep it and use it as needed, I suppose. That's what I do with all my _inventions_."

"But this isn't like anything you've devised before! Think of how this could change the world."

"Think of how it could change things for the _worse_. No, I don't think 'the world,' as you say, is ready for this sort of technology just yet."

Clara thought for a moment. "What was it you were referring to when you mentioned 'an entirely different contraption'?" she asked suspiciously. She couldn't help but flicker her gaze towards the drawn curtains to her left.

Holmes followed her line of sight, and, before she could make a dash to see what they concealed, he was in front of her, blocking her way.

"Now, now," he started, placing his hands on her shoulders "that's not meant for your eyes."

"Why not?" she demanded.

"It's still in the developmental phases."

Clara relaxed in his grip, silently assuring him that she wasn't going to violate his wishes. However, as he too began to relax, she darted past him and through the partition.

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><p><strong>AN: I hope you all liked it! Please review and let me know what you think, because I'm not going to continue this is there isn't an interest; Sherlock Holmes stories take a lot of effort and planning, more so than some of the other things I've written. Thank you so much for reading!  
><strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks so much to those of you who reviewed the last chapter, it really means a lot! Before we press onwards to the next chapter, however, I'd like to say that this particular story is going to be slightly different than its predecessors in the sense that I'm going to follow along with the second movie quite a bit. I'm not going to re-hash everything, per say, because that wouldn't work, but there are definitely going to be scenes that are similar - think of it this way, this story is going to be about as inspired by the movie as the movie was by the books. Anyway, I hope that doesn't turn any of you off. I just feel like the scale of what they were dealing with in the movie is much larger than anything I myself could come up with. That said, there will naturally be SPOILERS from the movie! Hope you all enjoy this chapter :)**

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><p><strong>Chapter II<strong>

Holmes let out an exasperated sight at Clara's disobedience, but didn't seem too concerned; he had anticipated that she would find a way to make it into that room from the moment she entered his study. He shut his eyes contemplatively for a moment, before spinning around abruptly on his heel and following her through the curtains.

"I told you not to go in here," he said in response to her flabbergasted expression.

"What is this?" she asked in awe.

The entire wall in front of them was lined with an enormous map, in addition to newspaper clippings, some old and yellowed, and some new. Pins were stuck into each of the articles, and from each pin hung a red ribbon. The whole thing created a web-like scene. After carefully studying the sight, Clara noticed that many of the ribbons ran back to a singular photograph: it was an image of a man wearing some sort of scholarly attire.

"Might Professor James Moriarty be the man of 'great interest' that you spoke of before?" she asked, reading the caption beneath the photograph.

"Perhaps," he answered ambiguously through pursed lips.

"And why is it that I wasn't meant to see this?"

"Like I said: it's still in the developmental phases."

"I see. It seems that if you're to do any more 'developing,' you're going to need a larger office."

"Nonsense. I've plenty of space," he insisted in spite of the inordinate amount of clutter that surrounded them.

"This Professor Moriarty – is he of interest in a negative way or a positive one?" she asked.

"I suppose that depends on one's perspective."

"Is this a matter of fascination or concern?"

"You know, it's quite remarkable how often those two coincide."

"So it's your usual morbid curiosity, then?"

"There's nothing morbid about my inquisitive nature," he retorted defensively.

Clara studied the frenzied assortment of newspaper clippings more fastidiously and saw that the vast majority of the articles were about bombings or murders. "So it's negative," she remarked dryly. "What would a professor have to do with any of this?"

"That's what I should like to know, my dear. I suspect – nay, I am certain – that this man is the most skilled criminal I have ever encountered."

"Why is that?"

"Every plan is perfectly executed. Nothing leads back to him, nothing at all. Every loose ended is clipped."

"Then why is he even a suspect?"

He brought his blackened fingertips up to one of the ribbons and followed it to a letter pinned to an article.

Clara gasped; it was a letter from Irene Adler, as well as an obituary from only two days earlier.

"Irene – Irene is dead?"

Holmes nodded tersely, no words escaping his mouth.

"Why – why didn't you tell me?"

"Just read," he instructed gruffly.

Her eyes quickly scanned the page; "It says she died of consumption."

"Read the letter."

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_I regret to inform you that I may soon be in need of your help once again. I arrived in London a week ago and I fear that I might have bitten off a bit more than I can chew, as it were. I've been taking employment from someone who I will not name – for my own safety – and I'm afraid that said person is not known for treating his employees with particular kindness. I thought I could handle him, but I think I may have been wrong. I fear he is far cleverer than anyone I have encountered before, and his intelligence rivals even yours. I believe you may be the only person who can help me out of this rather sticky situation. I wish to meet with you today at Flemming's at 12; I will be waiting at the rotary out front. Please come, as circumstances grow more precarious by the MInute._

_Yours,_

_Irene_

"Did you go?"

He nodded yes. "She never showed, which means that she must have sent this the day that she died."

"But how does this letter incriminate Moriarty? And why does the obituary say that she died of consumption?"

"If you look closely, you will see that there are several peculiarities in the text of the letter," he said, not answering the latter part of the question.

"Yes, she capitalized the 'm' and 'i' in 'minute.'"

"Very good. And if you have ever been to Fleming's, you will know that there is no rotary in front of the building and that the name of the restaurant is only spelled with one 'm.'"

"So?"

"As you may remember, Miss Adler is – _was_" he corrected with a pained wince, "fond of using anagrams. So, if you take these three words – 'Flemming's,' 'rotary,' and 'MInute,' there are many possible combinations. There seems to be a strong focus on the letter 'm,' which led me to believe that our culprit's name begins with said letter. This allowed me to discount 'Flemming's' in the anagram formula, leaving 'minute' and 'rotary.' However, I naturally found it odd that she should only capitalize the first two letters of the word 'minute,' which made me suspect that perhaps only these two letters were part of the equation. After a bit of playing around, I ended up with the name Moriarty, revered professor and one of England's brightest minds."

"What is it that Moriarty is trying to do?"

"That, I am not quite certain."

"You just know that it's not anything good?"

"Precisely."

"How do you intend to stop him if you don't know what he's planning?"

"Ah, again, you see, the term 'developmental phases' applies."

"You've no idea at all?" It was very unlike Holmes to have trouble figuring out a villain's schemes, and Clara was beginning to grow worried at the gravity of the situation. Things had to be especially dire if Irene had been killed – Holmes had made it quite clear before that she was not an easy target.

"Something on a scale unlike anything I've worked with before. If you look here," he pointed to a newspaper clipping about a bombing in Strasbourg, "and here," a clipping about an anarchist explosion in Paris, "it seems that he is trying to start a conflict on a global level."

"A world war?" she gasped in shock.

"In effect, yes."

"That's… Is that even possible? For one man to start a war?"

"It seems so."

"But Irene – the obituary says that she died of consumption. That's not something that just happens suddenly…"

"It's difficult to make a postulation without any tangible evidence, but I believe that she was given a type of poison that mimics the effects of tuberculosis."

Clara remained silent for a moment. "Why didn't you say anything?" she finally asked quietly.

He shrugged. "It didn't seem… relevant."

"Are you all right? I know _I _wasn't particularly fond of her, but you were."

"She knew the type of person she was dealing with from the beginning," he managed, his gaze locked on the floor. "She was doing terrible things under his employment." He followed the red ribbon to an article about the death of an American steel mogul. "This was no accident," he said, "This was the work of Irene."

"That doesn't change the fact that you cared for her, though."

He finally looked at her, a tempest of different emotions swirling in his dark brown eyes. He cleared his throat. "Moriarty must be stopped," he said eventually. "Before he can do any further damage."

"And just when were you planning on telling me and John about this?" she asked accusatorily.

A beat of silence passed.

"You _weren't _going to tell us?" she tried in surprise.

"Er – it wasn't that I wasn't going to _tell you_, per say, it's just I wanted to gather more information _first_. It seems that this man is capable of almost any sort of evil, and I thought it best not to involve you two unless absolutely necessary."

"That's all very well and good of you," she started, "But I thought the three of us were a team. Since when did you work alone, Sherlock?"

"Since now," he snapped.

"If anything," she continued as if he hadn't been rude, "it's more dangerous for us to _not_ know what's going on. Even if we're involved, at least we can be prepared. I think I can speak for John and myself when I say that I'd rather _you_ involve us than he."

"Well, you've gotten your wish then, haven't you?" he retorted curtly.

"It's not so much a wish as it is the lesser of two evils… But anyway, what are you planning to do?"

"Well, as of now my primary question is whether or not Moriarty is aware of my existence. I should like to test this theory, but I'm afraid that the only way to do so is to interfere in his affairs."

"Don't you think he already knows about you from Irene, though?"

"I heavily suspect it," he admitted.

"Do you think he intercepted the letter before it got to you?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Then why didn't he dispose of it altogether?"

"To alert me to the fact," he started darkly, "that Irene is dead. He must have known of my... attachment to her."

Clara winced internally at the word "attachment." "So then why poke the beast, as it were?" she asked.

"I'm afraid I'm not sure whether I am on the offensive or defensive."

"I see," she replied carefully. "So where do we even start?"

"_We _don't do anything. _I _will try to identify his next target and intercept whatever type of assault he has planned."

"Again with the solo charade?"

"It's not a charade," he mumbled, re-lighting his pipe. "Believe me, it's in your best interest to stay out of this, if only for the time being."

"I'll humor you, then – how far have _you_ gotten in identifying his targets?"

"Quite far," he answered haughtily. "As far as I can tell, his next victim will be one of three people: Doctor Luca Hoffmanstahl, Alfred Meinhard, or Claude Ravache."

"I see. And who are all of these people?" she asked, completely unfamiliar with every name.

"Loose ends," he stated bluntly. "Doctor Hoffmanstahl is on the forefront of medical innovation – I've spoken to Watson about him, and it seems that he specializes in a new field of surgery, called cosmetic surgery."

"Cosmetic surgery?"

"His principle effort is to reduce the appearance of scars and the like in war victims."

"What would Moriarty want with him?"

"I do not know, but he arrived in London mere hours before Irene, and I believe that he was her intended target before… before what happened happened."

"What about the others?"

"Meinhard is Germany's most powerful weapon distributor, and Ravache is the leader of the French anarchist movement."

"I see. So it's most likely going to be Hoffmanstahl, then, given his proximity?"

"Yes. And soon, too."

"How soon?"

"Very soon. Any day now. Perhaps even today."

"What are you waiting for, then?" she asked in disbelief.

"This," he said, holding up the two-way radio. "If Moriarty is indeed aware of my practice, it is possible - " he paused, "likely," he corrected, "that he may attempt to attack either you or Watson. That is why I have been reluctant to leave the house these past few days, at least until I have established a solid line of communication while I'm gone."

"We could just go with you," she suggested.

"I'm afraid that's too dangerous, too."

"Why do you think he's waited so long to kill Hoffmanstahl? Irene arrived nearly a week ago, correct?"

"Yes. I fear that he may be using him as bait, which is another reason I've been reluctant to leave."

"But you're still going to try to help him?"

"Yes, of course – I can't just let him die, can I?"

"No, I suppose not…" However, Clara wasn't keen on the idea of her husband walking directly into a trap made by "one of England's brightest minds." If even Holmes thought he was a viable threat, she was quite sure that this man – Hoffmanstahl – stood no chance. "When do you plan to act?" she asked.

"Immediately," he replied quickly, making a move towards the door.

"What, right now?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Why not? You know what they say, my dear: there's no time like the present!" Before Clara could say another word, Holmes was off with his hat, coat, and pipe – and, most importantly, his newly-created bilateral radio.

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><p><strong>AN: I hope you all liked it! I'd like to wish everyone happy holidays and, as always, I'd greatly appreciate it if you'd leave a review! Your feedback is essential! Also, it's been a while, so I'd love to hear what you guys think of my portrayal of Holmes. Thanks again for reading! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you so so much to everyone who has reviewed/favorited/subscribed! You guys are the best! I hope everyone had a good Christmas/weekend and I hope you all like this chapter :)**

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><p><strong>Chapter III<strong>

Even though Holmes was gone, Clara continued to peruse his study. She leisurely paced the room, and, when she reached his chemistry table, she couldn't help but notice something he'd recently been working on. There were several test tubes and pipettes strewn about, but what drew her attention in particular was a syringe filled with an unusual sort of murky liquid. She pocketed the item without a second thought. She knew, of course, that Holmes would notice it was gone and she knew he would ask her about it, but – although she might not outwardly admit it – she liked getting under his skin as much as he liked getting under hers. And she meant this in several different contexts.

Suddenly, there were two loud and concise knocks, which caused her to look around wildly. It didn't dawn on her until several seconds later that it had been a knock at the front door.

"Bloody hell, you really can hear everything from here," she mumbled to herself.

She went to the window and peered down just in time to see a gentleman wearing a gray bowler hat hand a small, rectangular wooden box to Watson. The exchange was brief, and the man tipped his hat politely before leaving. His strides were brisk and purposeful as he walked down the sidewalk, almost as if he were in a rush. The stranger (for he was a stranger, as far as she could tell) was most definitely not a regular parcel-boy, which struck her as odd. Given this strange occurrence and the fact that it happened to coincide almost perfectly with Holmes' leaving, Clara couldn't help but grow suspicious.

She left Holmes' room and continued down the hall to the top of the stairs as Watson was beginning his ascent.

"John," she started, narrowing her eyes at the package, "who was that?"

"Dunno," he replied lightly. "It's addressed to me, though. I was just going up to my office to open it… Why do you ask?"

"It's just – Holmes just left to investigate a case, and the timing seems a bit odd."

"What sort of case?" he asked, furrowing his brow. He was understandably surprised that the detective should choose to investigate something without either him or Clara.

"Something to do with some doctor," she answered vaguely, writing him off. She was far more concerned with the parcel. "The man who gave that to you, what did he look like?"

Now Watson, too, was beginning to grow concerned. "I don't know, he was pretty nondescript. He was wearing fairly nice attire and had a beard… Why, what's the matter?"

"Doesn't that strike you as strange? He certainly wasn't a post boy."

"Now that you mention it, I do suppose it's a bit odd…" he admitted.

"Come," she said, motioning for him to follow her up the staircase, "Let's open it together."

They went into Holmes' study and set it down on his desk. Slowly, Watson slid the wooden top off of the package, revealing another box with a canvas layer over the top. Before Clara could stop him, he tore through the barrier and a small flashcard with the number "45" popped out suddenly. The layer beneath the canvas was completely mechanical, and several small gears started turning immediately.

"That doesn't sound good," Watson said grimly in response to the ticking noise that was now emanating throughout the room.

"It's a bomb!" Clara exclaimed as the number changed to 42.

"Okay, okay, don't panic," he said in an attempt to remain calm.

"What should we do?"

"Erm –um – well, we could just chuck it…"

"Where?"

"Good question… Dammit, where is Holmes when you need him?"

"I know!" Clara said suddenly, procuring her bilateral radio. She quickly turned the dial as the number flashed to 35. "Sherlock!" she shouted into the mouthpiece.

There were several long moments of static, before Holmes' muffled voice dryly replied, "Yes, what is it?"

"We've just been sent a bomb," she started as calmly as possible.

"A bomb?" was his unfazed response.

"Yes, a bomb. And John and I are at a bit of a loss as to how we might go about disposing of said item, given the fact that we only have," she paused and looked at the object in question, "27 seconds left."

"Hm. Alright, well. Hm. How large is it?"

"About the size of a jewelry box," she answered urgently as their time wore on.

"Alright, here is what you must do: use the laundry chute, but wait until there are only three seconds left."

"Why?"

"Because you don't want it to hit the ground before it explodes. If it falls to the bottom, it will only ignite in the laundry room as opposed to within chute itself. If it ignites in the chute, it will minimize destruction and I'm sure your aunt will thank you for it. But make sure you give yourself enough time to close the door."

Clara would never cease to wonder how Holmes could remain so stoic in situations such as these, but she turned to Watson and saw that he had the bomb in his hands and was already prepared to drop it down the chute. There were 5 seconds remaining.

"Are you listening?" Holmes demanded, "The time must be almost –"

Before the rest of the sentence made it over the radio, Watson had opened the door to the chute, disposed of the bomb, and slammed the door back shut. He and Clara then swiftly moved away from the wall, towards Holmes' _Moriarty-web_, as Clara had mentally dubbed it.

The shockwaves from the blast caused the entire floor of the building to quake, and she and Watson were thrown to the ground. Clara, unfortunately, dropped the bilateral radio in the commotion and the invention shattered on impact. However, this was the least of her worries as her head hit the wood hard and the entire wall ballooned outwards. The plaster and wallpaper cracked and tore, creating an enormous upheaval of dust and debris. The floorboards near that side of the room were also destroyed, and sharp bits of wood flew upwards and pierced the sofa like darts.

Clara and Watson were sent into a fit of violent coughing.

When the enormous cloud of dust finally settled, Watson, who was relatively unharmed, studied Clara to make sure she was all right. "Are you hurt?" he asked with the intonation of a doctor.

"No, I'm fine," she answered, rubbing the back of her head, "Just a bump."

They then took a moment to survey the room from the floor. Everything was in complete shambles: papers were scattered everywhere, along with plaster from the ceiling and wall and various other bits of the house.

"I've seen it look worse," Watson said finally as he stood and helped Clara to her feet.

She smirked at the truth in the statement, but was having a hard time getting past the fact that someone had just made an attempt to kill them.

"He's not going to be pleased when he comes home," she said in reference to Holmes.

Watson scoffed. "He best be pleased – we are alive, after all." He continued to look around the room, and when he finally got a good look at is former office, he drawled, "I'm glad he made good use of this area… What in God's name is this?"

"I'm not entirely certain," Clara admitted, "He tried to explain it to me – I believe it's some sort of chart that maps a Professor James Moriarty's connection to various deaths and the bombings in Europe."

"Bombings?" Watson asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Yes, like the one we just experienced," she stated.

"You think – ?"

"Undoubtedly."

"But it was addressed to _me_."

She shrugged. "Perhaps it was just a warning. I can't imagine he'd be so stupid as to think we – or _you_, I suppose – wouldn't find a way to survive. You may not be Sherlock, but he certainly must know that you've seen enough to know when to be suspicious."

"But why me?"

"Because you're close to Sherlock, of course."

"But if my mere friendship with him puts me in such a precarious position, imagine what he has planned for you."

"I'd rather not," she replied in distaste. "Plus, your relationship with Sherlock could hardly be characterized as a 'mere friendship.'"

Now it was Watson's turn to look at her in distaste. "_'Relationship'_?" he echoed.

"Partnership," Holmes finished from the doorway. The other two members of the party turned their heads abruptly, previously unaware of his presence.

"You got here fast," Watson remarked dryly.

"I was just down the road."

"Is my aunt all right?" Clara questioned anxiously.

"She's not here," he started, "so I would assume so, yes… I see you took good care of the place while I was out," he commented sarcastically, looking upon his room with dissatisfaction. "Pity you broke the radio, but I expect I'll be able to fix it..."

"We're fine, thanks for asking," Watson said snippily.

"Glad to hear it," the other man heartily replied. He padded through the scattered debris and slowly circled his wife, as if to verify his friend's claim. He affectionately flicked a stray piece of plaster from her honey-colored hair, before standing still.

"How did you make out?" she asked finally.

Holmes' expression remained solemn. "Hoffmanstahl is dead," he stated bluntly. "Died about an hour or two before I arrived, from the looks of things."

"What was the cause?"

"Poisoned. Shot with a small dart. I told the authorities it was a heart attack."

"Why would you do that?" Watson asked, puzzled.

"I'd rather Lestrade keeps his grubby hands out of this, at least for the time being. What interests me now, though, is that Moriarty has made the first move towards directly involving me."

"Us, you mean," the doctor corrected. "That bomb was addressed to _me_."

"Yes, that's very curious."

"I think it was a warning," Clara interjected.

"Well of course," Holmes agreed. "If he'd meant to kill you, you'd be dead. What it shows, though, is that nothing is off limits. I found this," he said, procuring a wrinkled piece of paper from his vest pocket, "in Hoffmanstahl's office." He held it outwards and Watson and Clara's eyes quickly scanned the florid note.

"You're going to meet him in person tomorrow, then?" she asked.

He nodded curtly in response.

"You're sure that's a wise idea?" Watson asked.

"He's not going to try anything, at least not yet," Holmes answered. "Not until he's had his fun."

"Fun?" Clara demanded in disbelief.

"Oh yes, I have no doubts that Moriarty takes pleasure in a good contest of wits," he replied whilst inspecting his fingernails.

Several long moments passed. Watson could tell from his friend's demeanor that he was concerned; he had never seen him so utterly honed in on one person – it was clear that this man was a match to even Holmes' intellect, and was just as diabolical as he was brilliant. It was unspoken between the three that they were about to undertake a challenge unlike anything they had faced before.

"Well," Clara said, finally breaking the silence, "I'm going to get a broom."

Just before she left the room, however, Holmes' voice stopped her. "Oh darling," he called, "I believe you have something that is mine."

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><p><strong>AN: I hope you all liked it! Pretty please review, reviews = love :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello again, everyone! As always, thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I'm so glad to see that many of you have just recently read the previous two stories, it's really touching. I feel very lucky. But enough of my sappiness! I hope you all like this chapter :)**

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><p><strong>Chapter IV<strong>

Clara couldn't help but smile slightly. "I thought the mess might've covered my tracks," she said sheepishly, rummaging through her pockets for the syringe she'd nicked.

"Nothing escapes me," Holmes replied, only half serious. He sauntered towards her, hand outstretched expectantly; she placed the object in his palm.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Adrenal extract," he answered simply.

"Excuse me?"

"Adrenaline. Epinephrine… Please tell me you know what that is."

"It's a type of hormone, correct?" she answered hesitantly, embarrassed by her lack of anatomical knowledge.

"Yes, you are partially right. It _is_ a hormone, but also a neurotransmitter. It escalates the heart rate, among other things. You felt its effects only minutes ago when that bomb was delivered, I'm sure."

"Where did you get it from," she asked, blue eyes narrowed to slits.

"I'd advise you not to dwell on that," he replied evasively whilst intensely scrutinizing the syringe.

"Holmes, the things you come up with…" Watson said, shaking his head.

"It is something useful to have, do you not agree?"

"Yes, but I can't help but wonder if the end justifies the means you took to obtain it."

"Well, we won't know until we need it, will we?" the detective replied dismissively. "Here," he said, handing it back to Clara, "you may keep it."

"Really?" she questioned in surprise. Holmes hardly ever found it in him to part with his inventions, so, although she found it strange that he would give her such a random gift, she felt honored nonetheless.

"Of course," he said, "Our anniversary is coming up soon, is it not?"

She raised her eyebrows, only mildly surprised. It wasn't that she didn't think he would remember, for Holmes remembered _everything_ – it was that she didn't think he would mention it.

Watson grinned. "Ah yes, that's right," he said, laughter in his tone, "You've put up with him for a year, Clara, well done!"

"Yes, well, it certainly wasn't easy…" she grumbled.

"Come now," Holmes started with a Cheshire grin plastered across his unshaven face, "no need to get testy. Plus, we've only been _married_ for a year – I do believe we've been together for longer." He draped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into a lazy, one-armed embrace. She couldn't help but smile back, but remained still with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Honestly," she said to Watson, "I don't know how you've done it for all these years. I must say, I was seriously having doubts after he shaved a section of Alastair's stomach… He still hasn't forgiven you for that, by the way. The poor thing was traumatized,"

"I needed to test something," Holmes protested, "And Gladstone still hadn't recovered from the dopamine injection…"

"Good God, Holmes…" groaned Watson, covering his face with is hand.

"Yes but he's _my_ cat!" she insisted, "You had no right –"

"_Our_ cat," he interrupted hastily. "We were joined in holy matrimony, my dear, which means that what's yours is mine and visa versa."

"We were joined in no such union," Watson interjected, "And yet you still deem it fit to experiment on _my_ poor dog."

"In fact, my friend, _we _obtained Gladstone while we were living together, which means that he, too, is _ours_."

Watson could do nothing but shake his head in futility. "There's no reasoning with you," he said finally.

"I believe it's quite the contrary, actually. _You're_ the one who's not being reasonable."

Clara rolled her eyes; as much as Holmes got on her nerves, she couldn't help but be only slightly amused by the banter between the two men. The pair of them fought even more than she and Holmes did, and they weren't even the married couple.

"You know, sometimes I feel as if _I'm_ the friend and you two are the couple," she voiced jokingly.

Both men stopped arguing abruptly and straightened their postures – it seemed as if she'd struck a nerve by calling their masculinity into question. Holmes tightened his grip on Clara's upper arm and said, "It's not _my_ fault that dear Watson here acts with such immaturity."

"_Me, _immature? Oh, that's rich!" Watson exclaimed in disbelief.

He looked as if he could even strike Holmes, so Clara put herself between the two and said, "That's quite enough! The two of you really must stop bickering, you're giving me a headache." She emphasized her point by rubbing her temples tiredly. "Now, if you don't mind," she continued, "I really think we ought to start cleaning up this room. And also, which one of you is going to explain to my aunt what happened?"

"Oh no, no, no," both males said in unison.

"_You're_ doing it," Holmes stated.

"Yes, _you're_ her relative," Watson quickly agreed.

"But she's already frustrated with me," she protested. "John, can't you do it? She absolutely detests Sherlock already…"

"No," he stated firmly, "I cannot."

"But she'll be easiest on you," she pleaded.

"No," he repeated with slightly less conviction.

"_Please?_" she nearly begged. She batted her eyes pathetically and Watson felt his resolution waver; he had never been good at resisting the whims of the fairer sex.

"Fine," he grit out finally.

"Wonderful!" she exclaimed, hugging his rigid form. Then, in a flurry of dust and fabric, she was gone.

_(Later…)_

It took the company the rest of the day to restore the room to its prior level of disorder. Mrs. Hudson hadn't taken the discovery gracefully, but Watson was able to calm her down after a bout of fainting and a cup of hot tea. When he returned to his comrades in Holmes' room, he saw that the pair was engaged in their typical activities. Holmes was working on repairing the damaged bilateral radio, and Clara was immersed in some sort of artistic endeavor with watercolors. Watson noted that Clara must have been lying about her tabby cat's aversion to Holmes, for the creature was asleep, sprawled atop the detective's shoes. He found it oddly appropriate that Alastair should take a liking to Holmes, given the fact that there was something distinctly feline about the man's demeanor.

Watson cleared his throat, and both Holmeses looked up from what they were doing.

"I suppose I should tell you both… Tomorrow night I have," he paused, searching for the right word, "an appointment."

"What sort of appointment?" Clara questioned skeptically.

"Well," he stammered, "You see, erm, it's a dinner appointment… With a lady…"

"A lady!" Holmes interrupted, throwing down his tweezers and giving the doctor his full attention.

"Yes," Watson said sheepishly. "I met her today at the market – a man had stolen her purse and I retrieved it for her."

"Ah, that explains why you're favoring your left arm and your limp has worsened – you were hit in your right shoulder and you had to run to track the culprit down."

"Yes," his friend answered. "Anyway, her name is Violet O'Brien – "

"Irish."

"_Yes_, Holmes, would you please let me finish! I just thought I ought to tell you before we're so engrossed in this case that we haven't any time for more… _mundane_ subjects."

"Well, I think that's wonderful," Clara interjected.

"Yes, just wonderful," Holmes echoed with a bit of an edge to his tone. His wife shot him a glare so dangerous that he felt a chill run down his spine. He cleared his throat and amended, "I'm glad to hear it, my dear fellow. It's about time, if I do say so myself. You've deprived the female species of your soldierly charm for far too long."

Watson allowed himself a small smile and cast his eyes downwards. "I'm surprised you support the notion," he said without looking at his friend.

Holmes opened his mouth to speak, but Clara piped in instead. "You deserve to be happy, dear," she said. "He'll have to learn to accept it. Plus, he's got me, hasn't he?"

Watson snapped his gaze to meet hers, his eyes twinkling with cynical amusement. "Yes, it's a bit of a reversal of fortunes, isn't it? Everyone thought he'd be the one perpetually alone, but it turns out it's actually me. Funny how things work out."

"There's nothing 'funny' about it," she said firmly. "And you're not going to be alone – that's the purpose of this conversation, is it not?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

"Then problem solved."

"I suppose. For the time being at least – we haven't even gone out yet."

"Yes, for all we know she could be a raging lunatic," Holmes interjected, speaking for the first time in a while. "Best not get our hopes up."

"Thank you for that invaluable input, Holmes," Watson said sardonically.

"I trust his judgment," Clara said confidently. "I'm sure she's lovely."

"Don't patronize him," Holmes chided gruffly.

"I'm _not_! I'm only trying to compensate for your lack of optimism," she insisted with a look of horror displayed across her features.

"Really, Clara, it's all right," Watson assured her, "I'm quite used to this sort of behavior."

"But that doesn't make it right!"

"No, but it _does_ make it easier to tolerate."

"Holmes," she snapped, "come to bed, we need to talk." With that, she slammed her paintbrush on the coffee table and exited the room.

Holmes looked at Watson like a child who had just been caught stealing, a muted sort of terror present in his eyes. The fact that she had called him "Holmes" – something that she rarely did anymore – told him that she was furious.

Watson gave him a knowing look in return. "You'd better go," he instructed, his voice laced with amusement. In all sincerity, Holmes' rudeness hardly bothered him; the fact that his friend was so fazed by a woman's anger more than made up for any hostility he'd felt towards the brilliant detective.

Holmes stood brusquely, nearly causing his chair to fall over behind him; he straightened his ratty smoking jacket and lifted his chin haughtily. "I was about to go to sleep anyway," he announced petulantly in an attempt to convince Watson that he wasn't going as per Clara's request.

" 'Course you were, old boy," he said, clapping the other man on the back heartily. He watched as his friend left, leaving him alone in the study. Watson shook his head, a smirk playing at his lips. He, too, then left the room, softly closing the door behind him.

_(Meanwhile, in the Holmeses' bedchambers…)_

"I can't believe you were mocking me!" Clara exclaimed in rage as she began turning down their bed.

"Now listen to me, darling – "

"No! I'm not going to listen! After all he's been through, Sherlock, after everything that's happened! How could you say that? How could you make fun of the situation? It's a huge step for him!"

"You're being much too sensitive – "

"No, I'm really not! He lost his wife and child! Why would you ever say something that even had the slightest possibility of jeopardizing such a momentous leap?"

"Listen, I know this is difficult for you to understand," he asserted, his patience wearing thin, "but Watson is not nearly as fragile as you seem to think he is. You don't understand him like I do – how could you, you haven't known him for as long –"

"Oh, right," she interrupted, her cheeks flushed with anger, "So after all this time, I don't really know either of you. I'm still just a newcomer. I'm still nothing more than the niece of your landlady!"

"Now Clara, you know that's not true –"

"Isn't it? Because now you're excluding me from cases and telling me that I don't really understand one of my closest friends – and he is _my_ friend too, Holmes. I'm beginning to think this whole thing was a mistake – maybe I was foolish to think that you could ever carry on a meaningful relationship with me. You treat me like stranger sometimes, and the way you speak to me is often so condescending and hurtful that I have serious second thoughts about this whole situation. We obviously don't want the same things out of life, as it's now become clear –"

Now it was Holmes' turn to do the interrupting. "This isn't really about Watson, is it? This is about a _child_. You know we agreed before we were even married –"

"But things _change_, Sherlock! I changed my mind! I simply don't understand your aversion to the idea!"

"I have my reasons," he stated darkly.

"Do tell, because I'm simply _dying_ to know! Your not liking children shouldn't come before what would make me most happy, should it? Because I'm certain that's not how marriage works, and I know that even you aren't that selfish."

"That's not the reason," was all he said.

"Then what is it?" she implored.

"You see what Moriarty is trying to do," he said viciously, "I tried to explain it to you, but I can see now that you didn't really _understand_."

"He's trying to start a war."

"Not just a war. A _world_ war. And if he succeeds, do you know what will happen? Do you know what the consequences will be? They will be dire. Life as we know it will cease!"

"That's why you're going to stop him!"

"What if I can't? What if I fail?" he shouted, banging his fist on the mattress.

These two short inquiries drove Clara to complete and utter silence. She had never seen him like this, so unsure of his own capabilities. Perhaps she truly hadn't grasped the gravity of the situation. "What does this have to do with a baby?" she finally asked quietly.

Holmes ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. "Number one, a world war would not be an ideal environment in which to raise a child, do you not agree?" He sighed deeply before continuing, "And number two, what do you think I mean by 'fail'? Do you not understand that Moriarty will _kill me_ without hesitation if and when the time comes? I highly doubt you'd want to raise a child on your own."

Once again, Clara was speechless. She studied him intensely as his tried to avoid making eye contact with her. The yellow glow of the oil lamp exaggerated the bags under his eyes, making him look particularly haggard. It then struck her that he hadn't slept properly in nearly a week, and she felt a twinge of guilt for not having taken better care of him.

"Why are you saying these things?" she beseeched him, now sufficiently scared.

"Because they are very _real_ possibilities."

"You should go to sleep," she said tersely after a moment. "You need your rest..."

"Yes," he agreed, slipping beneath the covers, "Tomorrow's going to be very eventful, isn't it?" He then extinguished the lights.

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><p><strong>AN: Sooooo this was all very soap opera-esque, or at least dramatic. I hope you guys liked it? I thought it was important to explain Holmes' rationale behind the whole not-wanting-a-child thing. I can't really imagine him being difficult just for the sake of being difficult in a matter that is so important to her. **

**Also, this is random, but if anyone's going to be a stickler for the dopamine thing: yes, it wasn't properly studied until the 1900s, but Holmes was always a little ahead of the curve, right? **

**Anyway, I hope you all liked it. Please review! I really want to know what you all think about Holmes and Clara and Watson in this chapter, seeing as it was more of a character study than an action chapter. Thanks for reading :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thanks so much to those of you who reviewed the last chapter! I hope you all like this one!**

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><p><strong>Chapter V<strong>

When Clara awoke, Holmes was nowhere to be seen. She begrudgingly opened her tired eyes and saw that the space beside her had been rumpled considerably, but was currently vacant. As the previous night's events flooded back to her, she couldn't help but feel mildly guilty; Holmes had made it clear that he was particularly stressed about this case, and she hadn't done anything to help the situation. She knew her nagging could be horribly irksome, but sometimes she just couldn't help herself. It was her fatal personality flaw, she supposed; that, and she was terribly prone to letting her emotions getting the best of her. Holmes was well aware that such behavior was in her nature. He'd clearly accepted it – otherwise he wouldn't have chosen to marry her – but that didn't change the fact that she felt remorseful.

"Sherlock?" she called groggily.

"Ah, you're up!" he called from the bathroom. He stepped into her line of sight, donning a navy blue robe and shaving cream on half of his face – it was apparent that he'd just bathed for what was probably (Clara wasn't really keen on knowing the specifics) the first time in a long time. His hair was still wet and combed back neatly, a rare phenomenon.

"You're getting ready for your meeting, then," she observed.

"Indeed," he answered.

"I'm sorry about last night," she said softly, "I don't know why I get like that… I shouldn't keep pressuring you. I should have recognized that you've been bothered by this case."

Holmes narrowed his eyes, not altogether pleased that she thought he was off his game, as it were. "I wouldn't say _bothered_…" he trailed off, his pride injured.

"You know what I mean."

"Don't fret, my dear," he started, "Now that I've made my reasoning clear, the _problem_ has been put to rest, correct?"

"For now. But _after _the case…"

"Is a conversation for another time," he finished sternly, wandering back into the bathroom.

Encouraged by the lack of a flat-out rejection, Clara stood, stretched her arms above her head, and followed him. As he stood in front of the mirror and continued shaving, she wrapped her arms around his torso and pressed her cheek to his back.

"Everything is going to be fine," she said. "I have complete faith in you."

"That's reassuring," he mumbled wryly. "Look," he continued, spinning around, "Just – erm… Just don't take this too lightly, alright? I don't mean to startle you, truly I don't. But I fear this is more… _personal_ than the cases I've dealt with before. This is more than him wanting to start a war – this is more about defeating _me_. I have a sinking suspicion that we're about to enter a war of our own, one that's completely removed from all patriotic matters, and I can't help but expect that this meeting will serve as a formal declaration."

"I've never seen you so ominous…"

"Yes, well, times haven't really called for it before."

Clara resisted the urge to scoff. "I do believe we've been through quite a few rough patches," she said.

His reflection grinned at her in the mirror. "That we have, Clara, that we have."

As she washed up, Holmes began dressing for the occasion. The final product looked far more composed than normal, and his ensemble was devoid of its idiosyncratic bohemian flair. There was little color in the outfit, and he instead chose to focus on textures rather than patterns. However, Clara might have put a tad bit too much thought into analyzing his dress – it was difficult for her to decipher whether or not he chose his clothes as meticulously as he did other activities, for he appeared to perform both with an equal level of arbitrariness. Holmes – perhaps purposefully – often made it hard to distinguish between luck and skill.

"When was it you were planning to meet him?" she asked from the other room.

"Ten," he stated, "After his nine o'clock lecture. I think perhaps I'd like to sit in on the class, although I've been to quite a few already."

"In disguise, I presume?"

"Of course, my dear. You know my methods."

"That I do, Sherlock, that I do," she said, mimicking his earlier comment. "Don't you think he could see through them, though?"

"I saw to it that they were particularly… elaborate. He didn't seem to notice any peculiarities – I fear he considers his intellect far too great to clutter with the memorization of his students' faces."

"Well," she said finally, "You ought to be off soon, then, if you want to attend his lecture. It's no short trip to the college."

"You're quite right. I'll just pop in to see Watson for a moment and be off."

"Alright," she replied, "I'll say goodbye now, then." She gave him a kiss on the mouth and let her hand linger on his arm. "Good luck," she said, her gaze locked with his.

He nodded briskly and turned away to leave.

_(In Watson's room…)_

Holmes rapped loudly on the adjacent door, and Watson appeared almost immediately.

"Going already, are you?"

"Yes."

"I heard you two last night – fighting. The walls are thin. Care to talk about it?"

"No." Holmes didn't care to let his thoughts linger on what _else_ Watson might have heard in the past.

"_Will_ you talk about it? Why haven't you told me more about this case – from the sound of things, you seem to think this is a matter of life or death."

"It _is_ a matter of life or death. Irene is dead. I apologize, I should have told you earlier, but I thought you'd might be astute enough to notice the obituary on your own."

The discovery hit him like a ton of bricks. To imagine Irene - someone so full of life - simply... dead. It was such a foreign concept. But, then again, Watson was no stranger to loss. "Moriarty?" he asked.

Holmes only nodded in confirmation.

Watson paused for a long moment, debating whether or not he should still bring up the topic he had intended to before. He decided he had nothing to lose. "What I was saying earlier, though, about the fighting... Would a child really be so bad, Holmes?"

Sherlock bit his lip in an effort to suppress the indignation bubbling in the pit of his stomach. "Yes."

"But surely if an _accident_ were to happen –"

"There will be no '_accidents_.' Now, you're a medical man. I'm sure you're acquainted with the various ways to prevent such things."

The good doctor could do nothing to stop a faint blush from creeping across his cheeks. Holmes' – _ahem – _romantic life (for lack of a better word) was a subject he looked upon with both utter disgust and repugnant fascination. He'd always viewed his friend as above matters of a more carnal nature, so it came as a bit of a shock to realize that he was – after all – only human.

"Do get your mind out of the gutter, Watson," he scolded, eyelids drooping lazily in irritation. "In any case, I'll be going now. I left money on my desk for you to pay the workers who are repairing the wall."

"Alright. Goodbye, my friend," the other man replied, pulling the detective into a vigorous handshake.

_(Later…)_

German opera music blared as Holmes took his first steps into the great Professor James Moriarty's office.

"I hope I'm not intruding," he announced as Moriarty discussed some inconsequential minutia with a particularly sycophantic student.

Moriarty passed a stack of books to the obsequious young man, along with some instructions. "Yes, sir, I'll take care of it," he answered submissively.

"I do apologize," said the infamous professor, "I'm afraid I'm a terrible lecturer. Can I offer you something? Tea? Coffee?"

"Neither," Sherlock replied curtly.

"Something stronger, perhaps?"

"No, but might I trouble you for an inscription?" he asked, handing Moriarty one of his own books, _The Dynamics of an Asteroid & Lecture Notes_. As the professor took the time to sign the copy, Holmes allowed his gaze to wander throughout the room.

Moriarty's office was distinctly different from Holmes' in one very crucial respect. Though it was filled with clutter, like the detective's, it was filled with an _orderly_ sort of clutter. True enough, Holmes' office was orderly in his own mind. Moriarty's, however, was organized to even an outside viewer. Behind his large wooden desk lay an enormous chalkboard, and written on it was some convoluted string of mathematical equations regarding collision theory. Sherlock's deft eyes rapidly scanned the room, committing every detail to memory. This office was his only window into Moriarty's psyche, and it was fleeting.

"I believe congratulations are in order," he said over the scribbling of his pencil, "You have an anniversary coming up, do you not?"

Holmes nearly blanched at this statement. His suspicions were confirmed. This war was meant to register on a very personal level.

"Indeed I do," he replied with an air of detachment that only the great Sherlock Holmes could muster. "However, I must insist that Miss Barker and Dr. Watson are not party to this investigation. I trust you'll take this into consideration."

"Now, now, that's not quite right, is it? I believe you mean to say _Mrs. Holmes_."

Holmes quickly fabricated a flickering smile. "Of course," he said. "How foolish of me."

"In any case," the professor continued with an air of amusement, "What '_considerations_' will you grant me?"

The detective did not answer, but instead retrieved his book from Moriarty.

"Have you actually read it?" the bearded man asked.

"Of course."

"What did you think?"

"I found it… compelling. Although I'm primarily interested in your more recent endeavors."

"I take that as a compliment. I have the utmost regard for your talents. It's a pleasure to finally meet you officially," he said with a foreboding smirk.

"Are you familiar with the study of graphology?" Holmes asked abruptly.

"I've never given it any serious thought, no."

"The psychological analysis of handwriting," he started, his eyes glued to Moriarty's inscription. "The upwards strokes on the 'p,' the 'j,' and the 'a' and the 'm' indicate a genius level intellect. While the flourishes indicate a highly meticulous nature. But, if one observes the overall slant and the pressure of the writing, there's a suggestion of acute narcissism, a complete lack of empathy, and a pronounced inclination towards moral insanity."

"No," Moriarty exclaimed loudly. "In answer to your previous request regarding Dr. Watson and Mrs. Holmes not being involved, the answer is no. The laws of celestial mechanics dictate that, when two objects collide, there is always damage of a collateral nature." He stood, and walked towards the widow. "_Exempli gratia_, when two men find themselves at crossed purposes. A young woman, torn between them. The strain proves too much for her, and she suddenly falls ill with tragic consequences. A rare form of tuberculosis; she succumbed in a matter of seconds." He paused, and turned to see Sherlock's reaction.

Holmes' jaw was clenched and his eyes unfocused as he remembered Irene's note. He tried not to let his anger show, but he knew he did not succeed.

"I sent Dr. Watson a gift as well; I trust he received it… Now, are you sure you want to play this game?" Moriarty said deviously, rolling a chess piece between his fingers

"I'm afraid you would lose," Holmes replied darkly, his dark eyes still fixed downwards.

"Rest assured, if you attempt to bring destruction down upon me, I shall do the same to you. My respect for you, Mr. Holmes, is the only reason you're still alive."

Sherlock paused, unsure of what his next move should be. This meeting had simultaneously been everything he had anticipated and everything he had feared.

"You've paid me several compliments," he said finally, "let me pay you one in return, when I say that if I were assured of the former eventuality, I would cheerfully accept the latter." All pretenses were gone, now, and he and Moriarty eyed one another like two soldiers prepared for battle; the bizarre mixture of loathing and begrudging respect was almost tangible. The vicious stare lingered between them, before Holmes finally broke eye contact and turned to leave.

"I'll be sure to send my regards when it comes time for your anniversary celebration. Three days, I believe?" he called before the detective made it through the threshold.

Holmes turned again and allowed him one more livid glance.

"Another time, then," Moriarty said with a smirk. He then slid his chess piece forward on the checkered board.

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><p><strong>AN: Disclaimer: The last section is a modified version of a scene from the film; the majority of this dialogue I do not own. That said, I hope you guys all liked it! This chapter was really fun to write. I know Clara is incredibly sappy; I have a friend like this and it's hilarious. I hope no one minds. I think it makes her a bit of a foil to Holmes? Oh yes, and the stuff written on the chalkboard - my brother is basically a math genius and he told me that that's what the equations were when we went to see the movie together. Hopefully it's right? Anyway, please review! And what do you all think of Moriarty?**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hey, everyone! I hope all of you had an enjoyable New Year! Thanks so much to those of you who reviewed the last chapter, again I just have to reiterate that I really appreciate it! I hope you all like this chapter, it's quite long...**

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><p><strong>Chapter VI<strong>

Holmes stepped through the door to 221b Baker Street with an unreadable expression. He was even more consumed by his thoughts than normal, and was utterly determined to disguise any sort of emotion that might flicker across his features.

"How did it go?" Clara asked eagerly from the base of the stairs.

"It was… definitive. We have entered war."

She blinked twice slowly, processing his words.

"We are all in danger," he continued coolly. "Imminent danger. He will attack on the 21st."

"The 21st? _April_ 21st?"

"Yes."

"Our wedding anniversary?"

"Precisely."

"Well, what are we going to do?" she asked blankly.

"Be ready."

"How?"

"We must go to France."

"_What_?"

"There is going to be an attack in Paris, I'm sure of it. Claude Ravache will be the next loose end to be snipped."

"Alright," Clara said as calmly as possible.

"Where is Watson?" Holmes asked, craning his neck to see up the staircase.

"Out," she said simply. "He left at about noon, but I don't think he'll be back until late."

"Ah yes, his 'appointment,' as he put it, is tonight."

"Yes," she replied evenly.

Holmes looked extremely pensive, which worried her. "What is it," she asked, narrowing her eyes.

He didn't say anything, but gave her that '_look_,' as she called it. "No," she stated flatly.

"I haven't said anything," he defended.

"No, but I know what you're thinking. And the answer is no."

"But he could be in danger!" he protested.

Clara was silent for a moment – this _was_ a valid point, but she didn't know if Holmes was bringing it up to scare her into compliance or as a legitimate reason.

"What do we even know about this woman, Violet O'Brien," he said, "Like I said earlier: for all we know, she could be a raging lunatic – or _worse_, she could be under the employment of Moriarty. In fact, she probably is. He hired Irene, and therefore I think it's perfectly conceivable to suspect that he might hire someone else to distract and/or assault Watson. He's already made such an attempt, and don't you find it even mildly suspicious that this '_appointment_' is planned for the very same day as my meeting with Moriarty? It's too great of a risk – we simply must follow him, it's our duty."

"You know he'll kill us, right?"

"No need to be dramatic – I'll get a punch at the most and you'll escape unscathed."

"Physically unscathed, perhaps, but he's never going to forgive me for allowing you to do this."

Holmes scoffed. "No one _'allows' _me to do anything. I am a man of my own devices. I do what I see fit."

"You know what I mean," she said dryly. "We can't ruin this for him."

"Who says he has to know! We'll only make ourselves known if there is a problem, of course. If everything appears normal, he'll never even be aware that we are there."

"He'll find out one way or another," she said confidently, "Perhaps not today, but he'll find out eventually."

"Don't worry, my dear," said Holmes, "You trust me on most matters, so you must trust me on this; it is in everyone's best interest that we follow him. We cannot afford to split up at a time like this."

Clara sighed deeply, knowing she would regret this decision. "Fine," she begrudgingly agreed. "But if we're caught, it's entirely _your_ fault. I was merely a victim of your stupidity."

"Fantastic," he said jovially.

_(Later, in Holmes' study…)_

When it came dusk, Clara and Holmes were confronted with the very pertinent issue of when and where Watson and this "Miss O'Brien" were meeting.

"We should have thought this through more carefully," Clara lamented as she paced the room.

"Nonsense, I've thought everything through, as always. The evidence is laid out before us; all we have to do is assemble it. I am certain that once we simply… assess the situation, we will be able to arrive at the correct conclusion."

"Yes? Well, where do we start, then?"

"To start, we can only presume that Watson is to take Miss O'Brien out to dinner between the hours of seven and eight, as would be appropriate. It is not a matter of great precision, as I am sure that we may arrive a few minutes before or after they do without any dire consequences. The second matter of _where_ they are dining, however, presents a slightly larger problem."

"Yes, there are thousands of restaurants in London," she insisted.

"Indeed there are," he agreed.

"What about the Royale," she suggested, "He likes it there."

"No, the Royale is much too formal for a first encounter," Holmes stated, dismissing the idea. "While there may be thousands of restaurants in London, there are far fewer that Watson knows of and that would be appropriate for the circumstances. Now," he continued, "we know that he met her at Montagu Square, where yesterday's open-air market was set up. We also know, therefore, that she likely lives within a mile or so radius of this area."

He unrolled a large map of London and spread it across the coffee table, knocking over several empty glasses and a deck of cards.

"Now," he said, pressing his finger to Montagu Square, "There are only three restaurants around this area that are appropriate for this sort of occasion: the Beehive, the Golden Hind, and the Mirror, which is the restaurant at the Great Central Hotel on Marylebone Road."

"No, there are others," Clara cut in, "I know for a fact that Le Petit Mouton is located in that area."

"Please, darling, do try to think before you speak. Watson is a straight-laced English gentleman – he would never take her to a _French_ restaurant! Of all the absurdities… No, I'm quite convinced that it must be one of these three. Actually, scratch that – I'm afraid the Golden Hind might be a tad too informal. Which leaves the Mirror or the Beehive…"

"The Mirror is in a hotel, you said? I'd bet it's the Beehive, then. Even if the Mirror is a perfectly nice restaurant, Watson is very cautious and he may perhaps think that Miss O'Brien could read his intentions as less-than-noble if he decides to take her to the Great Central."

"That's a very fair assessment," Holmes admitted. "If you are correct, that means we must go to Crawford Street – we're only a few blocks away, the walk is less than ten minutes."

"I know, dear, I've passed the restaurant numerous times."

"Very well, then," he said loudly, "Best get our disguises together."

"Disguises?" she demanded.

"Yes, of course. You didn't think we'd follow him as ourselves, did you? Don't you think he knows to look out for us? I learned long ago not to follow Watson without the proper camouflage."

"He knows to look for _you_," she corrected, "Not me. I've never betrayed his privacy in any such way."

"No need to be nitpicky about the wording, _dear_. We must both conceal our identities."

Holmes rummaged through a particularly beaten looking trunk and procured a ratty brown wig, which he tossed to Clara. "Put this on," he instructed.

She examined the item in horror. The long chestnut waves would be passable with a bit of combing, but she was struck by something else entirely. "Why do you have _women's_ things?" she demanded.

Her husband snapped his head to look at her and replied, "You know very well that I will go to great lengths for a case."

Clara desperately wished she could erase her memory; the image of Holmes as a woman was… disconcerting, to say the absolute least. Despite this, however, she changed into a silky blue dress and put the wig on. She returned to see the detective wearing a curly blonde mop of hair with matching sideburns and mustache, as well as a small pair of spectacles and a ridiculously vibrant red velvet waistcoat.

"I thought the purpose was to _not_ draw attention to ourselves," she said, eyeing him disdainfully.

Instead of replying to her statement, he looked her over appreciatively and commented, "That hair color suits you. Much better than purple."

"I can't believe you did that to me when you had women's wigs," she snarled.

"Now, now, no need to dwell on the past. We'd best be off."

_(At the restaurant…)_

Before entering the Beehive, Holmes and Clara peaked inside the front widow. Within seconds, Holmes was able to locate Watson. He pointed him out to Clara, who was far more interested in Miss O'Brien. The woman appeared to be around her own age, give or take a few years, and was absolutely stunning. She had an air of mystery about her, which could be attributed to the fact that her coloring – if it could even be called such – was almost like that of a photograph. Her hair was thick and jet-black, her skin snow white, and her eyes gray as steel. The only bits of color on her, aside from her emerald green dress, were two dabs of rouge on her cheeks and a flash of pink on her heart-shaped lips.

"She looks nothing like Mary," Holmes commented.

The name sounded foreign to Clara – they hardly ever explicitly recalled what had happened anymore; they only alluded to it. And never did they mention her name. "No, but she's still very beautiful," she said.

"Indeed," he agreed unenthusiastically. In Holmes' experience, beautiful women had a knack for attracting trouble. "Shall we go inside," he said, holding the door open. The two then crossed the threshold.

"May we have a seat by the window," Holmes asked the maitre d'.

"Certainly, sir," the blonde-haired young man replied courteously. He led them to a table where they had an adequate view of Watson and Miss O'Brien and pulled the seat out for Clara, before handing them both their menus.

Almost immediately, Holmes turned his head in Watson's direction and observed the pair through the crowd. He then let his gaze wander around the room, eyes flickering rapidly from person to person, trying to discern any relation between them and the doctor – or, rather, Miss O'Brien.

Clara, instead, watched her husband cautiously. She was well aware that public places such as restaurants could be a bit… _overwhelming_ for him, especially when he was searching for something in particular. Holmes saw everything, and, when there was a lot going on, he tended to be overloaded with an influx of new information.

"You all right?" she questioned, touching his hand gently.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Just making sure. See anything?"

"I see _many_ things, but nothing of particular interest," he answered, his eyes never leaving Watson. Suddenly, he said, "Quick, raise your menu – he's going to get up to use the restroom in a moment."

She swiftly followed his instructions, and, as he'd predicted, only seconds later Watson stood and walked mere feet in front of them. He didn't seem to notice anything unusual.

After about a half hour of relative normalcy, Clara suggested, "Perhaps she really is just an ordinary girl."

"That is quite possible," Holmes agreed, taking a bite of his steak, "But, for everyone's sake, I think it's best if we arrive at that conclusion after collecting a sufficient amount of data."

"Meaning you want to wait until they're finished and follow them back," she said dryly, reading between the lines.

"Indeed."

Clara sighed and took a sip of wine, knowing that following Watson all the way to Miss O'Brien's house – for she assumed that he would walk her home – and then to Baker Street would be a far more perilous endeavor than simply observing them at a restaurant.

"This isn't going to end well," she muttered.

"What was that, _dear_?" Holmes asked irritably.

"Nothing," she sneered with a withering smile.

"I thought as much. Honestly, darling, you shouldn't worry so. The situation is under complete and utter control."

"Mhm. As always…"

"Why are you so fearful of being caught?"

"Because I don't want to betray his trust! Although you evidently have absolutely no problem with it, this feels wrong to me. I feel guilty."

"Don't. He'd do the same if it were you."

"Actually, I believe that when I was out with Tress, _you_ were the only one who followed me."

"Be that as it may, given the circumstances, I feel our efforts are entirely justified. Moriarty _did_ in fact threaten the both of you mere hours ago."

This comment momentarily silenced Clara. "I suppose you're right," she finally admitted.

After another hour, Watson got up from the table and walked around to Miss O'Brien's chair. He pulled it out for her, and, when she stood he helped her into her coat. After setting some money down on the table, they began walking towards the door. The Holmeses did all they could to remain incognito, and awkwardly covered their profiles with their hands while pretending to be extremely engaged in their coffee. Once the other couple passed in front of the window with their arms linked, Holmes threw a random sum of money onto he table, grabbed Clara's wrist, and rushed out the door.

They followed the other pair at a safe distance, ducking into shadows or alleyways whenever Watson so much as glanced behind him.

"I'm getting too old for this," Clara mumbled darkly as they hopped into a corridor. Holmes stifled a laugh in the sleeve of his coat. "If you're old, I'm ancient," he whispered back. Now it was her turn to stifle a laugh.

They followed Watson and Miss O'Brien all the way to the lady's home on Marylebone Street. He kissed her hand in a very chivalrous fashion, before running and continuing back towards Baker Street. Everything seemed to be in order.

"Well, that was anticlimactic," said Clara as they waited outside 221b Baker Street. They couldn't enter the house just yet, and not in disguise, either.

"Sometimes I prefer anticlimactic," Holmes replied, ripping off his false mustache and sideburns and shoving them in his pocket. He then proceeded to remove his wig and spectacles. Clara followed his lead, shoving her brown wig into her coat pocket. After about fifteen minutes, they quietly stepped through the front door.

"Where've you two been, then?" Watson asked from the top of the stairs.

"We decided to go out to dinner," Holmes answered as his wife fought a smirk, surprised by their success. "How was your evening with Miss O'Brien?"

Watson smiled and cast his gaze towards the floor. "It was… nice. I quite liked her."

"I'm so glad," Clara said happily. "You'll have to bring her 'round some time. I'd love to meet her."

"Yes, but perhaps a bit later. It's still very early – I don't want to scare her off just yet."

"So," she continued once they were all upstairs in Holmes' study (which often became more of a common area than his personal study), "Tell me about her. What's she like?"

"Well, she's Irish to begin with," he started, "And she's a widow. She moved to London with her husband, who was quite a bit older and had a significant fortune. Now, she's living on her own."

"Oh dear," said Clara, "How recent was her husband's death?"

"Only a year ago. But, from what she told me, it wasn't a happy marriage… From the sound of things, he was quite cruel."

"She married him for his money, then," Holmes replied, taking a drag from his pipe, "_That's_ always a good sign…" The sarcasm in his voice was cutting; Clara couldn't help but bite her lip uncomfortably, for she was torn between agreeing with her husband and reprimanding him for being so insensitive.

"_Actually_," Watson interjected defensively, "her parents forced her into the union. She didn't have a choice in the matter. She's from a poor family of farmers, and they wouldn't let her deny his request."

"Interesting," Holmes responded in a tone that sounded anything _but_ interested.

"Well, boys," Clara said, standing, "I think it's time for bed. We'll continue this conversation at a later date."

_(The next day…_)_

The next morning, as Clara and Mrs. Hudson were busy washing the dishes from breakfast, a loud knock echoed through the house. Clara put down her dishtowel and strode towards the front door, but, before she reached it, Holmes leapt down several stairs and beat her to it. He flashed her a mischievous grin in response to her agitated expression. He then peered through the peephole to see their usual post boy, Thomas, who was a boy of around fourteen or so.

"Hello, Tom, what can I do for you?" he greeted after opening the door.

"Mornin', Mistah Holmes, I've got a letter 'ere for the missus," he said, looking at Clara.

Holmes took the paper from the boy's grubby hands, before thanking him, tossing him a coin, and sending him on his way. He quickly flipped the envelope over and looked at the return address. His expression relaxed considerably.

"It's from your mother," he said dryly, handing her the letter.

Clara rolled her eyes. "_Again_?" she demanded irritably. Her overbearing mother had been sending her notes on an almost weekly basis; the first of such letters had contained thinly veiled suggestions of grandchildren, but the most recent were blatant attempts to convince her daughter to get pregnant. Clara had started tossing the envelopes into the rubbish bin without even a glance at their contents after about the third month of receiving them.

"Aren't you going to open it?" Holmes asked as she simply stared at the paper.

"Why should I? It's not going to be anything worthwhile – in fact, it will probably put me in a foul mood."

"Yes, but I think you ought to…" he said, looking around the room evasively. He seemed particularly concerned with the wallpaper, and Clara couldn't help but feel he might know something that she didn't. So, she put her thumb under the crease in the envelope and tore it open. Before she unfolded it, she narrowed her eyes skeptically at Holmes and asked, "Have you been reading the others?"

He didn't answer immediately, which she took as a confirmation.

"You _have_!" she accused. "_Why_? They're dreadful!"

"I sometimes find myself in need of amusement," he said with a smirk, recalling his mother-in-law's ridiculous suggestions. One letter in particular detailed how Clara might make herself more attractive so that her husband would give her a child. Luckily, Clara hadn't read that particular one and consequently saved herself the mortification of knowing he'd laid eyes on it.

"You shouldn't do that," she scolded, cheeks red with embarrassment, "They're private. They're meant for _me_, not you."

"Funny," he said, "Because I discovered that I am often the central topic of most of them." He met Clara's eyes and gave her a suggestive leer. She had to avert her gaze abruptly and clear her throat.

"I really wish you wouldn't do that," she said, finally unfolding the new letter.

As her eyes scanned the page, she nearly collapsed and had to use the stair railing for support. Holmes rushed to her side in concern and asked, "What is it?"

The blood rushed from her face. She could do nothing but close her eyes, put her fingers to her temples, and hand him the paper.

_Dearest daughter, _

_My darling child, I am writing because a terrible tragedy has occurred. Your brother, John, has been missing for several days. He never returned home from school on the night of the 15__th__ and has since been unheard from. The authorities suspect that he might have run away – apparently such is common for boys of his age – but I simply cannot believe this explanation. You and I know well that your brother would never do such a thing, but the officers in charge are not convinced – they have sent out a search party, but I doubt that they will take extensive measures to find him._

_The purpose of this letter is to inform you of this horrific turn of events and request your aid. I know that your husband is a detective – do you think he would be able to help? Please write back with all deliberate haste, for we are at a loss as to how we might go about dealing with this terrible situation._

_Love,_

_Your mother_

_P.S. We have informed your brothers George and Harry as well; Harry is coming home from Cambridge, but we have yet to hear back from George._

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><p><strong>AN: I hope you all liked it! Pretty please review! :)**_  
><em>


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, especially AnidaChan97! You left such a long and complimentary review, I just wanted to thank you since I can't PM you. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter, and I hope you'll forgive me that it's a little on the short side!**

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><p><strong>Chapter VII<strong>

Clara sat at the kitchen table, completely consumed by grief. Mrs. Hudson was fussing over her and clutching her hand with the intensity of someone holding onto a rope over the side of a ship. She'd made tea, but her niece hadn't touched it. Holmes and Watson paced around the kitchen, re-reading the letter.

After a minute or two, Holmes put the paper down on the table and proclaimed, "Moriarty."

Clara nodded, but covered her face with her hands. A few tears slipped from her eyes, but she would not truly cry. "You're sure?" she managed.

"It has to be," he stated solemnly.

"But why him, why Johnny?" she wondered desperately, "He's only a boy. He's only a child! Is there anything he won't do, that horrid man?"

"No. I'm very sorry about this, Clara, I truly am," Holmes said, his tone oddly detached. It wasn't that he was being cold, at least not purposely; he was just lost in thought. "But," he continued, "the only way we'll be able to fix this situation is if we continue with our original plan…"

"Our original plan," she interrupted, "You mean we should go to France? At a time like this?"

"I know it doesn't sound very appealing, but we haven't many options."

"But – but John – he's in danger! He could be killed!"

"He won't kill him," Holmes stated confidently, "He needs him as collateral. As an incentive."

"But why _him_ of all people?" she inquired sadly.

"Because he's young. He's innocent," Watson interjected vehemently. "He hasn't done anything wrong, that's the thing. There's nothing more evil – nothing more _tragic_ – than a harmless child becoming a victim of a larger scheme. He has no responsibility in this, but we do. Therefore, anything that happens to him will be _our_ fault."

"So, he's trying to torture us, basically," she said viciously.

"Precisely," confirmed Holmes.

"But why _me, _specifically?" she despaired.

"Because you're the easiest target," he answered matter-of-factly, "You have a large family, and you have a brother who happens to be young."

"How can you be so calm?" she demanded, verging on hysterics, "My twelve-year-old brother has been kidnapped! He's defenseless!"

"I'm calm," he started, "because I know that we will be successful in retrieving him. Everything will be fine, darling, we will return your dear brother home in one piece."

Clara looked at her husband, her eyes filled with hope. She didn't know if he truly meant what he was saying or if he was just trying to quell her fear, but it didn't matter. She knew that when Sherlock promised something, when he really put his mind to it, there was no way that he wouldn't be triumphant. It simply wasn't an option. She knew that he doubted himself in this particular instance, and she knew that he Moriarty was far cleverer than anyone he had ever faced before. But still, she trusted him.

"We have to get him back," she said finally, her tone grave. "Whatever it takes."

Holmes nodded, as did Watson. They understood. Failure wasn't a possibility.

"My parents are expecting me," she said. "I can't just ignore them."

"You must write back and inform them that you will not be able to attend because you are going to undertake a search for John. I'm sure they'd prefer that to you sitting idly, hoping for his return, do you not agree?"

"Yes, you are right. When can we leave?"

"If we leave for Dover today, we may be able to reach Calais as early as tomorrow night."

"Which means," Clara deduced, "that we will be taking the train from Calais to Paris on our anniversary – the day that Moriarty vowed to attack."

"Indeed," Holmes confirmed.

"Don't you think that's a bit dangerous?"

"It's not as if we have any other choice," he snapped, exasperation invading his voice for the first time.

Watson and Mrs. Hudson looked at him disapprovingly. "I was just making an observation," Clara replied meekly.

Holmes looked at the three others in the kitchen, feeling cornered. "I don't mean to be harsh," he finally amended. "But I think you'll all concur when I say that the situation has become increasingly… dire. We need to act with the utmost haste."

"I'll arrange for a carriage to take us to Dover this evening," Watson stated after a moment. With that, he left the kitchen, grabbed his bowler hat, and strode through the front door.

Once he was gone, Holmes took Clara's hand in his and helped her up from her seat. "Come," he said, "we should gather our things. It's going to be a long trip."

He kissed the top of her head, before leading her up the staircase. Once inside their bedroom, he took out a large valise and stuffed it with their clothing and various other assorted items. Clara would have protested at his lack of delicacy, but she wasn't in the right mental state to do so.

_(Later…)_

When Watson returned, he announced, "I've called for a carriage to pick us up at four o'clock," upon entering the house.

"Very good," Holmes said, trotting down the stairs. "You'd best pack your luggage, then." Clara was nowhere to be seen.

Watson nodded and began climbing the staircase. "How is she?" he whispered as he passed the detective.

"As well as can be expected," the other man answered.

"What do you think the prognosis is, _really_?" he questioned grimly. Watson knew his friend well enough to know that, although emotions were not his strong suit, he wasn't completely ignorant of social protocol. He suspected, therefore, that he'd put on an optimistic front for the sake of his wife. It wasn't like him to do such a thing, but circumstances were dire and he did in fact care deeply for Clara.

Holmes faltered and quickly glanced up to the second story. "It is not ideal," he admitted solemnly. "I fear that Moriarty will take any measures he pleases, with complete disregard for ethics or morality. He will not hesitate to kill anyone, even a child."

Watson nodded sadly, almost as if he'd been anticipating this response. "Very well then; I was afraid you might say that. But we must still take every possible course of action to prevent it from coming to such a horrible conclusion."

"Of course," Holmes agreed. "But we must also be prepared for the worst."

Again, Watson nodded in understanding. "I hope it won't come to that."

"As do I, my dear friend, as do I."

_(Several hours later…)_

The carriage arrived at four o'clock, as scheduled. The tone was somber as the three loaded their luggage onto the roof and climbed into the interior. However, before stepping into the stagecoach, Clara embraced her aunt and assured her that everything would be all right, that they would rescue her brother. Although the older woman had not met her young nephew, family was family and she was still tremendously concerned for his safety. Clara then took her husband's hand as he helped her up the steps, a feat made cumbersome by the burden of her dress. Then, the trio took their seats and was on their way, with Watson sitting across from his married companions. The driver was a quiet man of around sixty years of age. He was scruffy and rugged-looking, but Holmes had given him a scrupulous inspection to ensure that he his intent was in no way malicious. As far as he was concerned no one – absolutely _no one_ – could be trusted, regardless of how innocuous he or she might seem.

Much of the trip to Dover was passed in silence. They voyage was not long, only around two hours or so. When they arrived in town, Holmes took out his checkbook and paid the driver. The man thanked him gruffly, before proceeding to unload their belongings. The found a small hotel, called the Fox Inn. Watson booked two rooms, and a teenaged boy who worked there helped carry their suitcases to their rooms – if they could even be called rooms, that is. They were hardly the size of cells, and the décor looked as if it dated to the inn's naissance in the Middle Ages. There was garish red floral pattern on the wallpaper, the only aspect of the rooms that dated them to the present era.

Holmes didn't seem particularly bothered by the accommodations, but Watson and Clara couldn't hide their distaste. Watson, a military man, had of course weathered harsh conditions during his lifetime; therefore, he was quite certain that he would be able to spend one night in a dingy hotel room without any significant hardship. Clara, too, had been faced with the more indelicate realities of living without modern luxuries, particularly when she and Holmes had spent an extended period of time in gypsy camps. However, she couldn't say that she had particularly enjoyed the experience, or that she desired to relive it.

Watson received several pounds from the security of Holmes' wallet, before quickly leaving to buy tickets for the morning ferry. The couple was then alone in their room.

"This was the best we could do?" Clara commented somewhat snootily, raising an eyebrow. She didn't mean to be snobbish, but she certainly came across that way. "I'd have thought our funds would allow us a bit… more."

"Indeed, they could," Holmes replied stoically. "But more _lavish _accommodations would necessitate a reservation in advance. Plus, we're only here for a night; I'm quite sure you'll be able to survive, darling." His tone was serious, but there was a smirk playing at his lips. He was mocking her; subtly, of course, because even Holmes had the discretion to be kind to her now.

"Yes," she said in a tone that hardly sounded convinced. She noticed cobwebs in the corners and quickly came to the conclusion that she shouldn't dare look at the bathroom.

When Watson returned, he distributed the ferry tickets and went to his room to wash up. After he finished, the three friends left the inn and had dinner at a nearby pub.

Clara could barely eat at such a stressful time. She realized now that she hadn't truly understood the magnitude of what they were dealing with. If Moriarty was as clever as Sherlock had led her to believe – and she didn't doubt that he was – then it was quite possible that he _knew _she had underestimated his power. She regretted it, now, because perhaps if she'd taken things more seriously she could have prevented this. She knew it was a ridiculous notion and that it was incredibly unlikely that any of these musings were valid, but she couldn't help but worry that perhaps she was to blame for this horribly unfortunate turn of events. However, such worries were currently counterproductive.

All she could do now was follow with Holmes' plan. He was, of course, their best chance of stopping Moriarty. If anyone could defeat him – anyone at all – it was surely the great Sherlock Holmes.

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><p><strong>AN: Hope you all liked it! Pretty please review :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hi everyone! Sorry for the delay, I've been busy with schoolwork :/ To answer AnidaChan97's question: this story is only generally going to follow the plot of the movie. Simza won't be in it and a few other elements are going to be changed. But the basic idea is still the same. Thanks again for leaving such a nice review!**

**I hope everyone likes this chapter :)  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter VIII<strong>

"Darling, wake up," Holmes said, gently rousing Clara from her slumber. The sun was just barely glowing through the thick curtains, and, even in her exceedingly drowsy state, she could quickly surmise that it was quite early in the morning.

"What time is it?" she mumbled sleepily.

"Five-thirty," he answered succinctly.

She squinted at him in annoyance and asked, "And _why_ must we be awake so early?"

"Because our ferry leaves at seven," he replied.

Clara slumped back against the pillows in protest, but Holmes was having none of it. He ripped her pillow out from beneath her head and started to haul her out of the bed. Absolutely not in the mood to be carried, Clara finally submitted and stood up.

"Fine, I'm awake, I'm awake," she assured him. With a smirk, he let her be and disappeared into the bathroom.

"How bad is it in there?" she asked as she changed out of her nightgown in the other room. She'd been so exhausted the previous night that she hadn't even had the chance to wash up before bed.

"It's certainly not immaculate," he answered evasively.

She stepped into the room and looked around, disgust clearly etched across her features. "_Lovely_," she quipped sarcastically. Holmes was in some state of undress, wearing only a loose shirt and his trousers, with is suspenders hanging flatly by his sides. He smirked at her again through the mirror, buttoning his shirt. She soon noticed that he had bags under his eyes, as always. She worried for him – she knew that he was the _great_ Sherlock Holmes, but he seemed to have little or no regard for his personal well-being. "Did you sleep at all?" she questioned in disapproval. She already knew the answer, but she wanted to hear the words out of his own mouth.

"A bit."

He was lying, but she didn't say anything. In times like these – times when he was fully occupied with at case – it was rare for Holmes to get more than several hours of sleep a _week_. Not only that, but getting him to eat was another ordeal in itself. Luckily, he'd picked at his dinner the previous night. She let out a defeated sigh and turned the taps, cleansing her face.

"Sherlock, I really wish you'd take better care of yourself," she said finally, voicing her concern.

"I take perfectly good 'care of myself', as you say," he protested.

"You do _not_," she insisted. "Why, just the other day I caught you drinking _formaldehyde, _of all things! That stuff will _kill_ you."

"In larger quantities than I ingested, evidently," he dismissed nonchalantly, sliding up his suspenders. "Seeing as I _am_ still alive…"

"_Sherlock_," she scolded. Ah, ever the nagging wife.

"Isn't there something else we should be worrying about? Something that doesn't exactly hinge on my _bonne santé_? Because I think there is," he snapped curtly.

Clara looked her husband directly in the eyes, hurt. "I understand that, obviously, but I worry about you," she stated coolly. "Often. There are only a handful of people in this world that I truly fret over and _you_ are one of them."

"You mustn't, it's counterproductive."

She rolled her eyes angrily, but managed to keep her mouth shut.

After Clara had thrown on a dark maroon dress and the pair had packed their suitcases, the Holmeses were ready to leave. Sherlock stood outside Watson's room and frenziedly rapped on the door, tickets in hand. "Open up!" he commanded brusquely.

Watson soon appeared, fully dressed and carrying his bag. "Let's go," was all he said.

The walk to the docks was a short one, and the air reeked of low tide and sweat. The ferry's landing, however, was comparatively very tidy. This made sense, seeing as it was Dover's primary attraction. Many travelers took this route to France, so it was no surprise that the ferry – often used – had been outfitted with all the modern luxuries.

They arrived at quarter to seven and handed their tickets to the collector, before stepping up the ramp and onto the boat. The sky was gray with early morning clouds, but Clara was confident that the sun would burn through the gloom before their arrival in Calais. The water, a darker shade of gray, lapped against the steel hull of the ship. There was an icy bite in the air, as was to be expected from seaside weather in the spring. Clara tightened her shawl around her shoulders as the three of them took a seat on a bench overlooking the back of the boat. The duration of the voyage was to be between three and four hours; they would have plenty of time to buy train tickets and reserve a hotel room when they arrived in Calais.

"How are we going to find Claude Ravache when we get to Paris?" Clara asked abruptly. "He's a criminal, is he not? I expect he's not exactly advertising his location..."

"Indeed, you are correct. But there are in fact various methods that may be employed to unveil his position."

"Such as…?" Watson prodded.

"We're going to need to work outside the boundaries of the law for this case – luckily none of us have the misfortune of being implicated in any _official_ way to Scotland Yard. Consequently, we may take measures of questionable legality to uncover his location, if the need arises. These _are_ the French we are talking about, my friends – there's no need to feel guilty."

Watson exhaled loudly in exasperation; Holmes had just said a whole lot without actually revealing anything.

"You have a gift for being vague," Clara commented.

"Yes, this is what I mean by _deliberately withholding information_," Watson added.

Holmes smirked at his companions, but didn't grace them with a retort. Both Clara and Watson understood that Holmes' plans tended to fall into place almost magically, but this didn't change the fact that they also couldn't comprehend why they needed to be kept ignorant. Soon, the ferry pulled out of the dock and chugged onwards. From its position at the back of the boat, the trio could comfortably marvel at the beautiful sight of the chalky cliffs of Dover as they drew further and further away from their homeland.

In approximately three and half hours, they arrived in the port of Calais. As Clara had suspected, the cloudiness had since burned off and the sky was now a pleasant shade of blue.

The town was lovely, but decidedly French – a reality that greatly perturbed Watson.

After they had stepped off of the ferry with their baggage in tow, they flagged down a coach and set out to the railway station to buy tickets. The long, rectangular building, made of redbrick, was grandiose and newly-built. Inside, the square gray tiles neatly lined the floor and there was a large clock above the ticket counter. The station wasn't nearly as large or elaborate as the Victoria station in London, and was considerably less weathered.

After converting their pounds to francs at the currency exchange counter, Holmes made his way to one of the uniformed ticket-masters and fluidly asked, "Excusez-moi, monsieur, je voudrais acheter trois billets pour le prochain train pour Paris, s'il vous plaît."

"Bien sûr, monsieur. Le prochain train part ce soir à dix heures et demi," the man replied courteously. "Il y a plusieurs stations en cours de route parce que c'est un train de nuit, mais vous arrivez à Paris dans la matinée. Vous êtes chanceux, il y a encore des sièges disponibles. "

"Ah, oui? Très bien. Je voudrais trois billets pour première classe, s'il vous plaît."

"D'accord. Deux de vous seront dans une cabine, mais l'autre sera avec un étranger parce que les cabines accueillir que deux personnes. Je pense que vous trouverez que les cabines sont très spacieuses; les trois d'entre vous peuvent entrer dans une, si c'est absolument nécessaire."

"Ça fait bien."

"Ce qui fait soixante-dix et cinq francs, s'il vous plaît," replied the ticket-master.

Holmes handed him the desired sum and took the three tickets.

"First class?" Clara questioned as they headed out of the station.

"Well, you _were_ complaining about the accommodations in Dover," he reasoned. "Plus," he added thoughtfully, "This _is_ the eve of our first wedding anniversary. If we're to spend it on a train, it might as well be in luxury."

Clara raised her eyebrows and Watson grumbled, "I expect I'll be getting stuck with the random stranger in the other cabin for the duration of the night, then."

"Come now," Holmes replied cheerfully, "It won't have been the first time you've spent the night with a random stranger. You may have forgotten about your habits when you first returned from Afghanistan, but _I_ certainly haven't."

An embarrassed blush crept across Watson's face as he muttered, "You know very well that those days are far in the past."

Holmes waggled his eyebrows but nevertheless replied, "But of course." Clara good-humoredly nudged her husband with her elbow, but declined to comment on his lewd remarks.

At a loss as to how they might spend the remainder of the day, the three friends roamed the charming town of Calais; Clara insisted they do a bit of window shopping until the burden of their luggage became too much and they instead decided to sit down for lunch at a café.

Soon, night fell and it came time for them to board the train. As the industrial, coal-driven steam locomotive screamed to a halt on the railway in front of them, Clara couldn't help but be strung by a pang of nervousness.

The ominous and hulking presence of the inky black train reminded her of the dark cloud that was perpetually looming over them: Moriarty. And tonight was the eve of the anniversary, the eve that he had promised to strike. They would be chugging along all night, stopping frequently, as the ticket-master had informed them. This meant that there would be plenty of opportunities for ill-intentioned assailants to infiltrate the train and take them by surprise. Of course, it wouldn't be _entirely_ by surprise, and she was sure that Holmes had already worked out exactly when and how they would be attacked – if they were to be attacked at all, that is. It seemed a bit odd that Moriarty would give him a forewarning, especially since the two geniuses were both well aware that Holmes would be able to anticipate an attack without any verbal acknowledgement of it… Something seemed off.

However, before she could dedicate any more time to these qualms, Holmes turned from his position on the steps of the train and extended his hand.

"Are you coming?" he questioned impatiently.

"Of course," she answered, snapping out of her thoughts. She allowed him to help her up the steps and into the compartment.

Holmes briefly glanced down at their tickets and led them to their correct cabins. The couple was to be seated near the center of the carriage, while Watson's cabin was several doors down. He tipped his hat to his friends as he continued down the stiflingly narrow hallway. Holmes then slid the embellished door to their cabin open and stuffed their suitcases into the overhead compartment.

Eventually, he and Clara sat across from each other in a forced and tense silence.

"So," she said finally, "What do you think is to come from this night?"

"What ever do you mean, darling?" he taunted.

"Do you think Moriarty will attack?"

His eyes darted around pensively. "The decision to take this train was a last minute one," he answered contemplatively, "Which works in our favor. Randomness is extremely hard to account for in such elaborate schemes, but it is still not unreasonable to fear that Moriarty might have anticipated this rather arbitrary choice. The safest bet would have been to take a morning train; the trip would be shorter, and of course there would be fewer stops. Choosing this particular time to leave was certainly a gamble…"

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I thought you wanted the truth, not some useless platitude."

"I did, but you certainly didn't cushion the blow…"

"For that I am sorry, but you know that silky speech is not exactly my strong suit."

"You speak quite well when you're undercover," she quipped.

"Yes, but that is an act. Would you rather I put on a façade and tell you that everything will be fine and dandy? I thought you preferred me to be candid."

"I _do_," she insisted. "It's just – never mind. We oughtn't bicker like this, it _is_ still our wedding anniversary…"

Holmes smirked devilishly and, in a flash, he had hopped across the aisle and was now seated beside his wife. "That it is, my darling Clara, that it is."

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><p><strong>AN: Hope you all liked it! Please review!**

**Oh yes! I almost forgot. TRANSLATIONS: **

_**"Excuse me, sir, I would like to buy three tickets for the next train to Paris, please."**_

_**"Of course, sir. The next train lives tonight at 10:30. There are many stations along the route because it is a night train, but you will arrive in Paris in the morning. You are lucky, there are still seats available."**_

_**"Ah, yes? Very good. I would like three tickets for first class, please."**_

_**"Alright. Two of you will be in one cabin, but the other will be with a stranger because the cabins only accommodate two people. I think that you will find the cabins very spacious, though, so the three of you can stay in one if it's absolutely necessary."**_

_**"That's fine."**_

_**"That will be 75 francs, please."**_

__**It's been a couple of years since I've studied French, so if any of these are wrong feel free to correct me. I'm taking Italian now so I relied heavily on google translate for a lot of this dialogue...**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hello dears, I hope you'll forgive me for the wait. As always, thanks so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I hope you're enjoying reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it :)**

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><p><strong>Chapter IX<strong>

_(2 hours later…)_

After Clara and her husband had – ahem – _celebrated _their anniversary, per say, Holmes excused himself to use the lavatory. It entirely slipped her notice, but he pilfered a tube of lipstick from her pocketbook as he exited the cabin.

Clara was left to compose herself in the empty compartment, and she couldn't help but blush girlishly as she recalled the events that had immediately preceded. Holmes was certainly spontaneous (and indeed it _was_ their anniversary), but he never – _never_ – had time for such base pleasures when he was in the midst of a case.

To Holmes, the body was merely a vessel through which his brain could act. Physical needs – hunger, thirst, exhaustion, _lust_ – were mere nuisances. In fact, this was why he could go days – weeks, even – on end without eating or sleeping.

And Holmes didn't have a romantic bone in his body.

So, the whole situation struck poor Clara as being very strange… disquieting, even. However, for the life of her, she couldn't think of any possible ulterior motives associated with what had transpired.

She opened the widow, allowing a surge of crisp air into the cabin. Soon, Holmes returned.

"Hello, love," he greeted, pressing a platonic kiss to the crown of her head.

"Hello," she murmured sheepishly.

Just as he sat down, there was a knock at the door. Clara furrowed her brow skeptically, panic seeping into her chest.

Slowly, Holmes slid the door open; it was a train attendant with a bottle of champagne. He wore a customary red uniform and matching cap. He was young, and had an accent that was decidedly not French. _Red flag number one._

He stepped inside, placed the bottle in the ice bucket in the corner, and said, "It's been sent as a gift – congratulations on your first anniversary." _Red flag number two. Target locked._

As soon as the words crossed his lips, he reached into the front of his jacket. Holmes was too fast for him, however, and, before he could remove with firearm from his pocket, the detective had sprung into action. Holmes wrapped one strong arm around the man's throat, using the other to prevent him from brandishing his gun. He tightened his grip abruptly, fracturing the man's wrist and causing him to loose control of the pistol. Holmes then grabbed it as it slid out of his jacket and clubbed the attendant with the butt, causing him to lose consciousness.

"Open the door," he ordered Clara, his voice coarse on account of the rush of adrenaline.

She followed his instructions without hesitation. After some difficulty, the compartment was filled with the roaring screech of metal against metal. Holmes pushed the man into the blurred exterior of the train, effectively eliminating him as a threat.

Clara winced as a sickening _crack_ signaled his fall. "Why didn't you just shoot him?" she questioned in repugnance.

"Too much noise. Don't want to draw attention to ourselves," he replied shortly.

Suddenly, a new wave of dread overtook her. "What about John?" she demanded in realization.

Holmes immediately exited the cabin, only to be met with another onslaught of ill-intentioned train attendants. He fought them off expertly, and Clara tossed the poor disoriented souls out of the train as they came her way. One more resilient offender pulled a knife on her, but she quickly kneed him in the groin and sent him barreling through the door, to his demise.

When Holmes reached Watson's compartment, he saw that his dear friend's bunkmate – an elderly man – had had his throat slit. The doctor himself was on his back; his was pinned against the seat by one of the train attendants, who had his hands around his opponent's neck. Watson's face was flush due to lack of oxygen, but he was fighting tooth and nail to escape. Holmes languidly smacked the man in the back of the head with his gun, sending him toppling off of his friend. As Watson gasped for breath, he repeatedly drove his foot into the man's ribs. Satisfied as he heard the telltale crunch of broken bones, he turned to the detective and panted, "Looks like Moriarty's sent his compliments, then?"

Holmes merely grinned as he dragged Watson to the other compartment by his shirtsleeve. The doctor snatched his pistol from the floor as he went.

Once back inside, the two men saw Clara wringing her hands nervously as she paced the room.

"They've stopped coming," she informed them manically. "Why have they stopped coming?"

"Get down!" Holmes commanded suddenly as he roughly dropped to the floor, taking his companions with him as he went. The aisle was incredibly narrow; Holmes and Watson lay shoulder to shoulder, and Clara was forced on top of her husband in a rather compromising fashion.

"This feels strangely familiar," the detective commented cheekily despite the gravity of the predicament.

Before Clara could gather a retort, a round of bullets penetrated the wall of the compartment. She shoved her head down into the crook of Holmes' neck as he turned his head to the side. Watson rotated his body so that he too was shielded from the flying shards of wood.

"What are we going to do!" she shrieked over the chaos.

"Wait!" Holmes answered.

"For what?" Watson demanded loudly.

Suddenly, all noise ceased.

"Your window of opportunity," Holmes replied evenly.

The realization struck the doctor after a moment, and he abruptly scrambled upright. He drew up his pistol and aimed it through the "window" that the bullet holes had provided.

"Make it count!" Holmes taunted.

He was able to get one shot off before their assailant had reloaded his powerhouse of a weapon. He missed.

"I said make it count!" the detective chided angrily over the sound of more rounds being fired. "How many windows must I provide?"

Just then, there was an enormous explosion on the other end of the train.

"Luckily," he said, gently pushing Clara into a sitting position so he could properly speak, "I took your potential failure into account."

After the trio had recovered from all the excitement, they made their way to the blown-out end of the train. The only luggage they were able to retrieve was Clara's purse.

As Holmes scoured the rubble in search of some relevant artifact, Watson and Clara sat facing the open wall, which allowed them to watch the train tracks behind them.

"Does it bother you, Clara?" he asked her suddenly, briefly turning around to see if Holmes was listening.

"Does what bother me?"

"That you'll never live a normal life."

Her eyes widened; "I'm sorry?"

"Because it would bother _me_," he continued in a low voice, "In fact, it did bother me… Before, anyway. And I expect it shall bother me again at some point."

Clara carefully considered her words before responding. Finally, she spoke. "It does sometimes," she admitted, "But I suppose that's the sacrifice I must make… Holmes is an extraordinary man, and as such he lives an extraordinary life… I knew what I was getting myself into from the beginning. It would be pointless to long for anything other than what I have."

Watson nodded curtly. "Your case is different, I suppose," he replied. "Your attachment to him is different than mine."

"Indeed," she agreed. An awkward silence befell them. What this Watson's way of telling her that she'd made a mistake in marrying Holmes? Or was he trying to assuage the guilt he felt for not wanting to spend the rest of his life chasing after criminals with a madman? She couldn't place the trigger for such a conversation.

"If you're done conspiring against me," came Holmes' voice suddenly, "I think you'll be interested to know what I've found."

The other two turned to see what he was talking about. The daft detective was perched on a heap of broken wood and held a distorted bullet casing between his thumb and index finger.

"Now, you'll see that the exterior is quite damaged from the heat of the explosion," he began, "but if you look closely you'll notice the remnants of an engraving."

"So?" Watson questioned.

"_So_, it tells us the maker of the rather impressive weapons we've come into contact with. They were indeed quite advanced, wouldn't you agree?"

"I suppose," the other man conceded.

"Good. So, you'll see from the monogram that these bullets were produced by none other than Alfred Meinhard, one of Germany's leading arms manufacturers. Coincidentally, Meinhard will be in Paris for a peace summit the evening after next… Clara, you'll remember that I mentioned his name to you a while ago…"

"That can't be a coincidence," she said.

"Indeed, I concur," Holmes replied.

"So we've our first clue as to Moriarty's next target?" Watson prodded.

"Yes, it seems so. Although I had previously suspected it to be Monsieur Ravache, but it appears that Moriarty is trying to stir the pot, as it were."

"So it could be either of them?" Clara questioned.

"Yes." This certainly put a wrench into their plans.

_Later…_

When the train pulled into the station in Paris, Holmes, Watson, and Clara were met with more than a few shocked looks. The station's employees rushed to the scene, barraging the three with a series of urgent questions.

"Que s'est-il passé?" one demanded.

"Il y avait un accident," Holmes explained as he leisurely stepped onto the platform. "Heureusement, personne n'a été blessé." The last sentence was a blatant lie, but he wanted to leave as quickly as possible.

Clara smiled weakly, as if to assure them of this claim. Despite her charred and disgruntled state, she actually didn't feel too drained. Perhaps the adrenaline was still coursing through her system.

The three tried to make their way to the street, but they were blocked by several police officers that had just arrived at the scene.

"Vous ne pouvez pas partir!" one said forcefully.

"Monsieur," Holmes pleaded, "Ma femme est enceinte et elle est a déjà assez souffert. Je vous serais reconnaissant si vous nous laisser passer. Il y a plusieurs d'autres témoins que vous pouvez interroger."

And indeed, the last part was true; there were many other disheveled passengers who were beginning to venture onto the platform.

The officer looked at Clara sympathetically. "Bien," he said begrudgingly, "Vous pouvez aller."

"Merci bien!" Holmes exclaimed eagerly. With that, the three of them pushed through the crowd and entered the streets of Paris.

"We haven't much time," he said once they were in the daylight. "We need to find Ravache."

"Ravache?" Watson questioned.

"Yes. There is to be an attack tomorrow night – another 'anarchist' attack – which means that Ravache will be organizing it."

"Ravache is going to organize an attack against Meinhard," Clara deduced suddenly.

"Quite right," Holmes confirmed.

"So we must find him," Watson continued, "But how?"

"Remember what I said about working outside the law?" Holmes started, "Well, who are the most lawless people in Paris – Clara, you should know this."

"Gypsies?" she suggested.

"Yes, gypsies."

"_Gypsies_? _Really_?" Watson demanded, clearly not thrilled by the notion.

"Yes, my dear Watson, don't sound too enthusiastic." Without another word, he chartered a coach.

"Pour l'après-midi," he lied to the portly director, handing him a more-than-sufficient sum of francs.

"Merci, Monsieur," he said, tipping his hat graciously.

Little did he know, he would never see the carriage again…

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><p><strong>AN: Hope you all liked it! Please review! :)**

**Translations:**

**_"What happened," one demanded_**.

_**"There was an accident," Holmes explained as he leisurely stepped onto the platform. "Fortunately, no one was injured."**_

_**"You can't leave!" one said forcefully.**_

_**"Sir," Holmes pleaded, "My wife is pregnant and she has already suffered enough. I would really appreciate it if you would let us pass. There are plenty of other witnesses that you can interrogate."**_

_**The officer looked at Clara sympathetically. "Alright," he said begrudgingly, "You can go."**_

_**"Thank you very much!" Holmes exclaimed eagerly.**_

_**"For the afternoon," he lied to the portly director, handing him a more-than-sufficient sum of francs.**_

_**"Thank you, sir," he said, tipping his hat graciously.**_


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hey everyone! As always, thanks so so much to those of you who reviewed the last chapter! I hope you all enjoys this one :)**

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><p><strong>Chapter X<strong>

It didn't take them long to arrive at the gypsy camp. Its inhabitants had seen the Brits trotting down the dusty path from nearly a mile away, so, by the time they had actually made it to their destination, they were met with a crowded welcome. Curious boys led the front of the pack, followed by the men of the group, who were more guarded than enthusiastic. "Prepare yourselves, we're about to be violated," Holmes whispered to his companions. Just as he'd warned, children's grubby little hands pawed at their belongings, reaching eagerly towards Watson's walking stick and Holmes' valise. They tugged at Clara's skirts, rolling the foreign fabric between their sullied fingers. They didn't speak to them directly, but rather enveloped them in a frantic chatter, which, to Holmes' trained ear, was a hybrid of French and Romani.

Finally, a hulking man stepped forward and silenced the chaos. "Qui ête-vous?" _[who are you] _he demanded bluntly.

"Je suis un detective," _[I'm a detective] _Holmes answered fluidly, "Et je cherche pour un guide." _[And I'm looking for a guide]_

The man's face contorted slightly in distaste. He scratched his straggly tawny beard and, with a thick accent, stated, "You are English."

Holmes was mildly perturbed that he hadn't employed a flawless French accent, but answered, "Yes."

The taller man took note of Holmes' reaction and gave him a jovial grin, revealing several rotten teeth. "Do not worry, Monsieur, you speak very well. It is your companions who gave you away – they are much too stiff to be French."

Holmes sent Clara and Watson a sidelong glance, only to see Watson in the midst of fending off several pre-teens as they tried to steal his bowler and Clara shrinking under scrutiny of the Romani women as they examined her hair. Suddenly, a very small boy swooped in out of nowhere and snatched Holmes' valise straight from his hand. His lack of reaction was phenomenal, and he merely watched disinterestedly as the boy made off with it. He then turned back to his broad-shouldered companion and continued, "Anyway, as I was saying… I find myself in need of a guide."

"A guide for what?" he questioned, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"I'm looking for Claude Ravache. It is very urgent."

The man's expression darkened considerably. "We know nothing of Monsieur Ravache. We are a simple people, not criminals, as our reputation may suggest."

Holmes let his eyes wander to a man who was sharpening a dagger that had clearly been stolen from some member of the aristocracy and sent his companion a pointed look. "I do not wish him any harm," he stated confidently, "In fact, I merely wish to warn him. He is in the midst of a political scandal of a global magnitude, and I fear that he has no idea just how great a role he plays."

"And why should I trust you, _Englishman_," he spat.

"I offer compensation," he said simply. From the breast pocket of his coat, he procured a pouch of coins.

"You cannot buy our cooperation," he said viciously.

Holmes jingled the pouch amiably, causing several people to snap their heads in his direction. "Maybe not _yours_," he said, "but surely someone else's…"

"What is your name?" he ordered irritably.

"Sherlock Holmes," the detective stated, un-fazed.

"Sherlock 'olmes," he repeated, testing it. "Well, Monsieur 'olmes, we cannot help you. If you wish to find Monsieur Ravache, you must do so on your own."

"My good man," Holmes said with the faintest flicker of anger, "If you think we have come all the way from London to have _you_ refuse our request, then you are sorely mistaken."

The other man exhaled forcibly from his nostrils, his temper straining. Watson intervened. "Y at-il un problem?" _[Is there a problem] _he asked in a horrid accent as he straightened his body to its full height.

"Yes," the gypsy said, "Your companion believes that 'e may bribe my family into betraying one of our own."

"Aha," Holmes cut in with a cocky smirk, "So you _do_ know Monsieur Ravache."

"That is beside the point," he snarled.

Suddenly, a boy of about thirteen or so interrupted. "Papa, I know these Anglais," he said in a heavy accent as he looked up at his father with a pair of olive-green orbs. His voice was raspy, but still pre-pubescent. He wore a patched cap on top of a mop of curly chestnut hair and had dirt smeared on his tanned cheeks. "They are the ones who were involved with the Diamant last year," he explained. "Sherlock Holmes, oui?"

"Yes, that is I," he said, mildly surprised that the boy had remembered – or even heard of – the incident. "How do you know who I am?"

"Your name was in the papers last year – there was a shooting in your 'otel room. You were the one who found the diamant."

"Fermer la bouche, Benoît," _[Shut up, Benoit] _the man instructed as he gave the boy a light cuff on the back of the head.

"Mais Papa ils n'ont pas méchants! Ils peuvent l'aider!" _[But Papa they aren't bad! We can help them!] _he protested.

"We do not need their help," he answered gravely.

Angry and hurt, the boy turned on his heels and stormed off. An idea immediately struck Holmes.

"Well," he started, "If that is how you feel, fine. I suspect that Monsieur Ravache may be dead before the week's end, but obviously that is none of your concern. However, I would be much obliged if you at least let us stay the night – we have spent the entire day traveling and both myself and my companions are very fatigued."

The man considered his words carefully, and eventually replied, "I suppose that would be all right. May it never be said that the Romani are not an 'ostpitable people."

"And what is your name, might I ask?" Holmes stuck out his hand as a peace offering.

The man eyed it warily, but soon shook it nevertheless. "Bruno Belville," he answered curtly.

"Bruno. And that boy was your son, no? Benoît, was it?"

"Yes," he said tiredly. His son was sulking, sitting on the edge of one of the caravans and kicking a hole in the dirt with the front of his tattered shoe.

"Well, these are my companions," Holmes introduced, "My colleague, Doctor John Watson, and my wife, Clara." The two gave small smiles of acknowledgement, but said nothing.

Later in the evening, after dinner, Benoît continued to pout. He sat away from the campfire and took his meal in solitude. This did not evade Holmes' notice, and, after the adults were sufficiently intoxicated from their god-awful homebrewed liquor (which, coincidentally, had a highly amusing affect on Watson), he was able to slip away to talk to the boy in private. He sat beside him on the steps of one of the caravans and said, "Hello, Benoît."

Benoît's face brightened considerably at this mere acknowledgement – he was clearly shocked that the brilliant detective would pay him any notice, let alone condescend to speak to him. This was a wonderful boost to Holmes' ego, and he decided that he liked the boy already.

"'ello, Monsieur 'olmes," he replied eagerly.

"Would you happen to know where Monsieur Ravache is hiding?" he asked carefully.

Benoît furrowed his brow, clearly conflicted. "Papa said that I wasn't to discuss it…" he started apologetically.

"Ah, yes, you're correct. I'm sorry, I wouldn't want to put you in a position that would make you uncomfortable. It's just, you see, this is a matter of paramount importance – much more important than the Hope Diamond case. There are innocent lives at stake, Benoît, and I know that you don't want to see people get hurt."

The boy mulled his words over with the utmost care, no doubt translating them into French in his mind. Finally, he spoke, "Do you promise that you won't 'urt 'im?"

"Of course," he agreed quickly.

Benoît looked around shiftily, as if to ensure that no one was listening. "Alright," he hissed, "I can take you to where he is. But we 'ave to leave tonight, before anyone can stop us."

"By the time we get to the city, there won't be anywhere for us to spend the night, let alone any sure way of locating Ravache" Holmes explained gently, "It would be much more efficient if we left tomorrow."

Again, Benoît fretfully considered what Holmes had told him. "I suppose you are right," he said slowly, "But no one can no that I have gone. Papa will be very angry with me if he learns of hat I have done."

"Don't worry, I'm sure we'll be able to devise of some way of distracting him while you're gone," Holmes assured him. "He won't even notice your absence."

Benoît bit his lower lip tentatively, but nodded in consent nevertheless.

"Very well, my good chap – we shall leave tomorrow morning. Judging by the copious amount of alcohol that your comrades have consumed, I suspect it unlikely that they shall awake before we leave."

Benoît's brain was reeling as it tried to process Holmes' speedy string of words. When he realized what he'd been told, he grinned at the detective, revealing a set of pearly crooked teeth, a handful of which were just coming in. Holmes allowed him no more than a compulsory smirk in response. Whereas the boy's admiration was at first endearing, it was now becoming disconcerting – Holmes didn't exactly know how he felt about being held in such high esteem. He didn't consider himself a hero, and he didn't think that others should either. It put too much pressure on him, pressure he couldn't afford – at least not at a time like this. Not that Holmes was particularly affected by something so trivial as 'pressure,' of course, but people's disappointed implied that he'd failed in some way, and Holmes was never one to fail at anything.

_(Later…)_

The next morning was not pleasant for Doctor Watson. While Holmes had, over the years, grown entirely accustomed to forcing himself into a (highly) functioning individual after a bout of heavy drinking, Watson had yet to perfect the talent. It wasn't like Watson to drink excessively, and, although Clara ultimately disapproved of the habit, she had to admit that the dear doctor had been quite amusing in his drunken stupor. After gambling away sixty pounds, he'd partaken in a traditional gypsy dance that had left his feet sore and blistered. He was sure to have a rude awakening in the morning.

Because Bruno was the head of the camp and therefore had the most sway, they'd been able to sleep in one of his three caravans. Clara awoke at dawn to her husband prodding her. With a headache, she groggily waved him away. She hadn't had much to drink the previous night, but she was fatigued from all the traveling.

"We really must leave," Holmes insisted in an urgent whisper.

"Why so early?" she complained.

"Because we must go before anyone notices we've left."

"_Why_?" she groaned, her eyes still firmly shut.

"Because we're taking the boy with us and they can't know he's gone. I've created a diversion to distract them while we're gone, but they obviously can't see him leave," he explained impatiently.

"What boy?"

"Benoît. Bruno's son."

"Oh." Before she could say any more, Holmes had grabbed her hand and was hauling her off the floor. After she was sufficiently awake, the two of them slowly turned to address a loudly snoring Watson.

"So how are we going to do this?" she asked, placing her hands on her hips.

In response, Holmes nudged the other man with the tip of his foot. When he didn't even budge, he repeated the action with increased force. Watson scrunched his eyes closed and made an annoyed noise.

"You've got to get up," Clara tried, barely hiding her smirk. It wasn't often that the proper doctor would be caught in such a state – she saw this as true evidence of how comfortable he had grown to be in her presence.

After several moments of waiting for him to get up, Homes' patience was gone. He knelt beside his friend and began shaking him mercilessly.

Immediately, Watson reacted. "I'm up, I'm up!" he cried furiously. He shoved Holmes away from him with surprising strength and scrambled to his feet. Clara concealed a snicker with the back of her hand.

After composing himself after the shock of being assaulted, Holmes urged the doctor to be quiet by rudely shushing him. "We must be quiet," he hissed, "We've got to leave _now_, before anyone wakes up."

Watson glared daggers at him and straightened his jacket; he shot an apologetic look at Clara, who was no longer even attempting to hide her amusement. When they exited the caravan, Benoît was already waiting outside. Once he saw the trio emerge, he beckoned them to the carriage that they'd arrived in.

"'urry up!" he ordered in a hushed tone. They obeyed, and soon the four of them were well on their way into the city. Holmes was sure that the rest of the gypsies would have a busy day trying to recollect their herd of horses that had been mysteriously released into the countryside.

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><p><strong>AN: Thanks so much for reading! Pretty please review and let me know what you think! :)**


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